me 

STORY 

OF  MY 

House 


BY 

660RG6  H.6LLWANG6R 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2017  with  funding  from 
Getty  Research  Institute 


https://archive.org/details/storyofmyhouse00ellw_1 


.'■TM. 


THE  STORY 
F MY  H O U S 


BY 

GEORGE  H.  ELLWANGER 

AUTHOR  OF 

“THE  GARDENS  STORY** 


These  are  but  my  fantasies. 

Montaigne 


THIRD  EDITION 

NEW  YORK 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

MDCCCXCIII 


Copyright,  1890, 

By  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


EPISTLE  DEDICATORY. 

A house  without  woman  is  a house  without  a soul. 

Turkish  Proverb. 

here  is  expressed  from  the  grapes 
that  ripen  on  the  sunny  slopes 
of  Ay  a wine  called  Fine  Fleur 
d’Ay  blanc — Fine  Flower  of 
white  Ay — a sparkling , golden,  perfumed 
nectar,  to  sip  of  which  is  an  exhilaration. 

In  every  ideal  home  there  exists  an  es- 
sence that  likewise  diffuses  its  fragrance — 
the  fine  flower  of  noble  womanhood,  with- 
out which  the  house  is  a habitation,  not  a 
home. 

Alone  under  the  ministering  care  of 
woman  may  the  routine  of  daily  life  be  re- 
lieved and  varied,  and  the  course  of  the 
household  made  to  flow  free  from  friction 
and  asperity.  Caressed  by  her  gentle  touch, 
order  ranges  itself,  beauty  finds  a dwelling- 
place,  and  peace  enters  as  an  abiding  guest. 
Pre-eminently  it  is  woman  that  idealises 

i 


4 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


the  home , and , with  her  sweet , refining 
presence , mingled  with  the  joyous  laugh  of 
children , creates  its  atmosphere  of  serenity 
and  content. 

To  the  gentler  sex , therefore — to  the  old 
and  to  the  young,  to  the  dark  and  to  the 
fair,  to  all  who  woo  for  us  the  sunshine  of 
the  home — a health  in  the  Fine  Flower  of 
Ay! 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


Epistle  Dedicatory 3 

Prologue  7 

I.  The  Perfect  House 9 

II.  Old  Oriental  Masters  . . . .29 

III.  Signs  in  the  Sky 46 

IV.  The  Ideal  Haven 64 

V.  When  Leaves  Grow  Sere  . . . .86 

VI.  Decorative  Decorations  . . . .105 

VII.  My  Study  Windows 119 

VIII.  My  Indoor  Garden 143 

IX.  A Blue-Violet  Salad 170 

X.  Footsteps  of  Spring 187 

XI.  Magicians  of  the  Shelves — I . . . 205 

XII.  Magicians  of  the  Shelves — II  . . . 225 

XIII.  Authors  and  Readers  ....  250 

XIV.  The  Pageant  of  the  Immortals  . . . 272 

Epilogue 285 


PROLOGUE. 

Spring  speaks  again,  and  all  our  woods  are  stirred, 
And  all  our  wide  glad  wastes  a-flower  around. 

Swinburne. 

shaded  slope  bounds  the  home- 
stead to  the  southward,  and  a 
thick  copse,  descending  rather 
abruptly  to  the  river,  flanks  the 
grounds  in  the  rear.  Screened 
from  sun  and  glare,  the  grass-plot  is  always 
a favorite  lounging-place  during  hot  weath- 
er. Across  the  water  a west  or  south  wind 
invariably  blows,  freighted  with  coolness 
and  charged  with  that  indefinable  odor 
which  the  wind  gathers  from  its  passage 
through  a wood. 

From  the  trees  and  bushes  and  grasses 
along  the  river  banks  the  air  has  dusted  a 
fragrance;  from  the  leaves,  the  fern-fronds, 
and  the  flowers  it  has  extracted  an  aro- 
ma. The  scent  of  the  swamp  honeysuckle 
along  the  hillside  now  forms  its  strongest 
component  part.  Its  perfume  is  tangible, 


8 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


fresh,  and  uncloying — sentient  with  the  de- 
licious breath  of  the  summer — and,  I fancy, 
charms  the  wood-thrushes  into  sweeter  song. 

The  west  or  south  wind  invariably  blows. 
Even  when  not  felt,  it  may  be  seen  in  the  as- 
pen’s trembling  leaves;  so  that,  however  hot 
the  day,  here  a breeze  may  be  always  felt  or 
seen.  Through  the  trees  the  river  sparkles, 
and  through  a wider  opening  may  be  traced 
its  sinuous  course  until  it  merges  into  haze 
and  sky.  My  book  remains  unopened;  it  is 
pleasanter  to  read  the  earth  and  air.  The  bees 
hum,  a wood-dove  calls,  the  soothing  roar 
of  the  rapids  rises  and  falls.  So'  sweet  is 
summer  air,  so  caressing  are  summer  sounds. 

How  the  sails  have  multiplied  on  the 
river!  Is  it  the  haze  or  the  sudden  sunlight 
that  has  transformed  their  canvas  into  un- 
accustomed color?  Yonder  a larger  vessel, 
of  different  mold  from  the  pleasure-craft,  is 
rounding  the  river’s  curve  in  her  cruise  up- 
stream. Her  clean-cut  prow  rises  high  in 
air,  her  painted  canvas  is  spread,  and  the 
sunlight  strikes  the  gold  of  her  sides.  On- 
ward she  sails,  graceful  as  a water-bird, 
tacking  at  intervals  to  catch  the  breeze.  At 
once  it  becomes  plain  to  me — it  is  no  mi- 
rage, no  cheat  of  the  atmosphere,  but  a re- 
ality. Up  the  river  from  the  lake,  through 
the  lake  from  the  sea;  launched  from  her 
harbor  in  distant  lands,  and  laden  with  her 
precious  stores,  my  ship  has  come! 


I. 

THE  PERFECT  HOUSE. 

People  who  know  my  house  come  to  like  it  a little; 
people  who  merely  glance  at  it  see  nothing  to  call  for 
comment,  and  so  pass  on.  . . . 

My  house  not  being  a fine  house,  nor  a costly  house, 
nor  what  people  call  an  elegant  house,  what  is  there  in 
it  to  describe  ? — O.  B.  Bunce,  My  House. 


8 make  no  claim  that  the  house 
wherein  I dwell  is  a perfect 
one;  it  is  my  first  house  — a 
fledgling.  One  must  build  at 
least  thrice,  it  has  been  truly 
observed,  to  obtain  the  perfected  dwelling, 
and  still  there  will  remain  room  for  im- 
provement. So  many  things  go  to  make 
up  the  ideal  house,  it  is  beyond  human  pos- 
sibility to  combine  them  all;  while  even 
during  the  process  of  construction  one’s 
tastes  are  liable  to  change  or  become  sub- 
ject to  modification. 

To  the  most  of  mankind  a single  venture 
is  sufficient;  only  architects  build  more  than 
once  for  a pastime.  For  the  sole  office  of 
the  architect  is  to  plan;  the  province  of 


10 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


the  builder  to  delay.  The  asylums  teem 
with  victims  to  the  vexations  of  house- 
building. Having  money  to  make  and  not 
to  disburse,  with  no  further  care  than  to 
complete  the  work  in  hand  with  the  ut- 
most leisure,  the  architect  and  builder  pass 
through  the  ordeal  unscathed,  and  remain 
to  lure  new  victims.  One  exception  I re- 
call. Picturesquely  situated  on  the  eastern 
coast,  within  hearing  of  the  surge  and  ris- 
ing amid  the  forest-growth,  stands  an  un- 
tenanted villa.  The  imposing  exterior  is 
of  massive  stone,  and  all  that  unlimited 
wealth  and  taste  could  contribute  has  been 
lavished  upon  the  interior.  The  mansion 
was  completed  within  the  specified  time, 
but  during  its  construction  architect  and 
builder  both  died,  the  owner  living  only 
three  days  after  its  completion.  From  the 
placing  of  the  foundation-stone  to  the  pro- 
spective fire  in  the  hearth — from  commence- 
ment to  completion — who  may  foresee  the 
possibilities  ? Ever  man  proposes  while 
Fate  disposes. 

Plans  look  so  feasible  on  paper,  and 
building  seems  so  delightfully  facile  in 
theory — so  much  time,  so  much  money, 
and  your  long-dreamed-of  castle  in  Spain 
is  a reality.  But,  like  the  quest  of  a Ger- 
man professor  I once  knew  who  was 
searching  for  a wife  who  must  be  rich, 
beautiful,  young,  angelic,  and  not  afraid  of 


The  Perfect  House. 


1 1 


a mouse,  the  perfect  house  is  difficult  to  at- 
tain ; while  plans  often  resemble  the  sum- 
mer excursions  one  takes  with  the  mind 
during  winter,  apparently  so  easy  to  carry 
out  and  yet  so  unfrequently  realized.  We 
forget  the  toilsome  climb  up  the  mountain 
where  we  arrive,  perchance,  to  find  the 
view  shrouded  in  mist;  or  a cold  spell  sets 
in  when  we  reach  the  seashore;  or  heavy 
rains  render  the  long-contemplated  angling 
trip  a dismal  failure. 

If  we  leave  the  house  to  the  architect, 
he  builds  merely  for  himself— he  builds  his- 
house,  not  yours.  You  must  be  the  ideal- 
ist of  your  own  ideal.  “ Our  so-called 
architects,”  says  Richard  Jefferies,  “ are 
mere  surveyors,  engineers,  educated  brick- 
layers, men  of  hard,  straight  ruler  and 
square,  mathematically  accurate,  and  utterly 
devoid  of  feeling.  You  call  in  your  practi- 
cal architect,  and  he  builds  you  a brick 
box.  The  princes  of  Italy  knew  better ; 
they  called  in  the  poet  and  the  painter,  the 
dreamers,  to  dream  for  them.”  How  the 
penetrating  insight  of  Montaigne  pierced 
the  mask  of  the  architect:  “The  Merchant 
thrives  not  but  by  the  licentiousness  of 
youth;  the  Husbandman  but  by  dearth  of 
corne;  the  Architect  but  by  the  ruine  of 
houses! ” 

Perhaps  the  easiest  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty is  to  secure  a house  already  construct- 


1 2 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


ed  that  will  meet  your  requirements  as 
nearly  as  may  be.  But  the  mere  building, 
the  foundation,  construction,  architectural 
details,  and  interior  arrangement  are  only  a 
small  part  of  numerous  vital  factors  that 
should  enter  into  the  question  of  the  house 
and  home.  There  are  equally  the  consid- 
erations of  situation,  neighborhood,  acces- 
sibility, and  a score  of  like  important  feat- 
ures to  be  seriously  meditated  on.  One 
can  not  afford  to  make  mistakes  in  build- 
ing or  in  marrying.  “In  early  manhood,” 
says  Cato,  “the  master  of  a family  must 
study  to  plant  his  ground.  As  for  build- 
ing, he  must  think  a long  time  about  it.” 
The  external  construction  is,  indeed,  the 
least  part  of  building — there  is  still  the 
decorating  and  the  furnishing. 

Wise  is  he  who  weighs  and  ponders 
ere  he  decides  upon  the  location  of  his 
house,  especially  if  he  would  be  near  the 
town.  For  in  the  ideal  home  I would  unite 
many  things,  including  pure  air,  sufficient 
elevation,  pleasant  views,  the  most  suitable 
exposure,  good  soil,  freedom  from  noise, 
and  the  natural  protection  from  wind  af- 
forded by  trees.  “Let  our  dwelling  be 
lightsome,  if  possible;  in  a free  air  and 
near  a garden,”  is  the  advice  of  the  philoso- 
pher, Pierre  du  Moulin.  Very  apposite  are 
old  Thomas  Fuller’s  directions  for  a site — 
“Chiefly  choose  a wholesome  air,  for  air  is  a 


The  Perfect  House . 


3 


dish  one  feeds  on  every  minute,  and  there- 
fore it  need  be  good.”  And  again : “Light 
(God’s  eldest  daughter)  is  a principal  beauty 
in  a building,  and  a pleasant  prospect  is  to 
be  respected.”  In  the  chapter  of  the  Es- 
says, on  Smells  and  Odors,  the  author  per- 
tinently observes:  “The  principall  care  I 
take,  wheresoever  I am  lodged,  is  to  avoid 
and  be  far  from  all  manner  of  filthy,  foggy, 
ill  - savouring,  and  unwholesome  aires. 
These  goodly  Cities  of  strangely  seated 
Venice  and  huge-built  Paris,  by  reason  of 
the  muddy,  sharp,  and  offending  savours 
which  they  yield;  the  one  by  her  fennie 
and  marish  situation,  the  other  by  her  dur- 
tie  uncleannesse  and  continuall  mire,  doe 
greatly  alter  and  diminish  the  favor  which 
I bear  them.” 

All  these  desiderata  are  well-nigh  im- 
possible to  unite  in  the  city.  There  all 
manner  of  nuisances  necessarily  exist — 
manufactories  which  discharge  noxious 
smoke  and  soot,  the  clangor  of  bells  and 
whistles,  an  atmosphere  more  or  less 
charged  with  unwholesome  exhalations. 
This  more  particularly  in  summer;  in  win- 
ter I grant  the  city  has  its  charms  and  ad- 
vantages. Wealth  may  sometimes  com- 
bine the  delights  of  urban  and  rural  life,  as 
when  a large  residence  plot  is  retained  in 
a pleasant  neighborhood  of  the  town.  But 
even  unlimited  means  can  rarely  procure  a 


M 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


place  of  this  description,  which  comes  by 
inheritance  rather  than  by  choosing,  and  in 
the  end  becomes  too  valuable  to  retain. 
Besides,  however  fine  the  ancestral  trees 
and  endeared  the  homestead,  it  must  still 
lack  the  repose  of  the  country,  the  free  ex- 
panse of  sky,  the  unfettered  breadth  of  the 
fields. 

When  I look  about  me  I find  the  com- 
bination I would  attain  a difficult  one  to 
secure  in  almost  any  city.  If  I build  in  the 
suburbs,  upon  the  most  fashionable  ave- 
nue, its  approaches  may  be  disagreeable 
and  the  surrounding  landscape  flat  and  un- 
inviting. The  opposite  quarter  of  the  sub- 
urbs, the  main  northern  residence  avenue, 
will  be  windy  during  winter.  If  I locate 
westward  there  may  be  factories  and  car- 
shops  to  constantly  offend  the  ear;  if  I 
move  eastward  unsavory  odors  may  assail, 
and  if  I select  a site  in  yet  another  neigh- 
borhood that  commends  itself  for  its  eleva- 
tion and  pleasant  society,  there  may  be  the 
smoke  and  soot  of  neighboring  chimneys 
to  defile  the  air  and  intrude  themselves 
unceasingly  into  my  dwelling.  The  coun- 
try-seat sufficiently  removed  from  town, 
and  yet  comparatively  accessible,  alone 
may  yield,  during  the  greater  portion  of 
the  year,  all  the  desired  qualifications  of 
the  ideal  home.  Does  not  Beranger  truly 
sing— 


The  Perfect  House . 


15 


Cherchons  loin  du  bruit  de  la  ville 
Pour  le  bonheur  un  sur  asile. 

Seek  we  far  from  the  city’s  noise 
A refuge  safe  for  peaceful  joys. 

And  have  not  all  the  poets  before  him  apos- 
trophized the  delights  of  a country  life  ? 

Why  not  the  town-house,  and  also  the 
country-seat — a hibernaculum  for  the  win- 
ter, and  a villeggiatura  for  the  summer? 
Unfortunately,  this  would  involve  construct- 
ing two  houses,  meeting  a double  building 
liability,  harboring  two  sets  of  worries  ; 
and,  moreover,  one’s  library,  however 
modest,  can  not  well  be  disarranged  or 
periodically  shifted  from  one  place  to  an- 
other. 

The  old  Latins  were  distinguished  as 
we  well  know  for  their  love  of  the  country. 
Virgil,  Ovid,  Tibullus,  and  Terence  all  had 
their  country-seats.  Horace,  in  addition  to 
the  Sabine  farm,  possessed  his  cottage  at 
Tivoli,  and  longed  for  a third  resort  at  Sor- 
rento. Pliny  the  Younger,  and  Cicero  rode 
seventeen  miles  from  Rome  to  Tusculum 
daily  to  gain  repose.  Pliny’s  letters  attest 
his  intense  fondness  for  rural  surroundings. 
The  holder  of  numerous  country-houses, 
he  has  described  two  of  them  very  minute- 
ly, his  descriptions  giving  to  posterity  the 
most  reliable  and  truthful  account  of  the 
old  Roman  villas.  Of  all  his  villas,  includ- 
ing those  at  Tusculum,  Praeneste,  Tibur, 


1 6 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


several  on  Lake  Como,  and  his  Laurentine 
and  Tuscan  resorts,  the  two  latter  were  his 
especial  favorites,  whose  fascinations  he 
never  tires  of  recounting.  Especially  at- 
tractive is  his  account  of  Laurentium  : the 
apartments  so  planned  as  to  command  the 
most  pleasing  views  ; the  dining-room 
built  out  into  the  sea,  ever  washed  by  the 
advancing  wave  ; the  terrace  before  the 
gallery  redolent  with  the  scent  of  violets  ; 
the  gallery  itself  so  placed  that  the  shadow 
of  the  building  was  thrown  on  the  terrace 
in  the  forenoon  ; and  at  the  end  of  the  gal- 
lery “ the  little  garden  apartment”  looking 
on*  one  side  to  the  terrace,  on  the  other  to 
the  sea  ; his  elaborate  bath  - rooms  and 
dressing-rooms,  his  tennis-court  and  tower, 
and  his  own  sleeping-room  carefully  con- 
structed for  the  exclusion  of  noise.  “My 
house  is  for  use,  and  not  for  show,”  he  ex- 
claims ; “I  retire  to  it  for  a little  quiet 
reading  and  writing,  and  for  the  bodily 
rest  which  freshens  the  mind.”  One  side 
of  the  spacious  sitting-room  invited  the 
morning,  the  other  the  afternoon  sun.  One 
room  focused  the  sunlight  the  entire  day. 
In  the  walls  of  this  his  study  was  “a 
bookcase  for  such  works  as  can  never  be 
read  too  often.” 

The  Tuscan  villa  was  on  a still  more 
extensive  scale,  the  house  facing  the  south, 
and  adorned  with  a broad,  long  colonnade, 


The  Perfect  House. 


17 


in  front  of  which  reposed  a terrace  embel- 
lished with  numerous  figures  and  bounded 
with  a hedge  of  box  from  whence  one  de- 
scended to  the  lawn  inclosed  with  ever- 
greens shaped  into  a variety  of  forms. 
This,  in  turn,  he  states,  was  fenced  in  by  a 
box-covered  wall  rising  by  step-like  ranges 
to  the  top,  beyond  which  extended  the 
green  meads,  fields,  and  thickets  of  the  Tus- 
can plain,  tempered  on  the  calmest  days  by 
the  breeze  from  the  neighboring  Apennines. 
The  dining-room  on  one  extremity  of  the 
terrace  commanded  the  magnificent  pros- 
pect, and  almost  cooled  the  Falernian. 
There,  too,  are  luxurious  summer  and  win- 
ter rooms,  a tennis-court,  a hippodrome 
for  horse  exercise,  shaded  marble  alcoves 
in  the  gardens,  and  the  play  of  fountain 
and  ripple  of  running  water.  The  long 
epistle  to  Domitius  Apollinaris,  descriptive 
of  the  Tuscan  retreat,  he  concludes  by  say- 
ing : “You  will  hardly  think  it  a trouble  to 
read  the  description  of  a place  which  I am 
persuaded  would  charm  you  were  you  to 
see  it.” 

It  was  the  delightful  situation  and  the 
well  cared  for  gardens  of  Pliny’s  country- 
seats,  it  will  be  seen,  no  less  than  the  re- 
fined elegance  and  the  conveniences  of  the 
splendid  houses  themselves,  of  which  Pliny 
was  mainly  his  own  architect,  that  rendered 
them  so  attractive.  Assuredly  he  must 


i8 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


have  been  a most  accomplished  house- 
builder and  artist-architect ; for,  in  addition 
to  the  many  practical  and  artistic  features 
he  has  enumerated  with  such  precision,  he 
specifies  a room  so  contrived  that  when  he 
was  in  it  he  seemed  to  be  at  a distance 
from  his  own  house.  But  even  Pliny’s 
wealth  and  inventive  resources,  much  as 
they  contributed  to  his  comfort,  could  not 
combine  everything.  He  could  not  bring 
Laurentium  to  him ; he  must  needs  go  to 
it.  The  daily  ride  of  seventeen  miles  and 
back  to  the  city  must  have  been  irksome 
during  bad  weather  ; and  even  amid  all  his 
luxury  and  beauty  of  scenery  he  bewails 
the  lack  of  running  water  at  Laurentium. 
Luxurious  and  convenient  as  were  the  old 
Roman  villas,  they  were  built  with  only 
one  story,  in  which  respect  at  least  the 
modern  house  is  an  improvement  upon 
the  house  of  the  ancients  ; and  there  yet 
remain  other  beautiful  sites  than  those 
along  the  Tyrrhenian  sea  or  in  the  vale  of 
Ustica. 

Whether  the  house  be  situated  in  the 
country  or  in  the  town,  whether  it  be  large 
or  small,  it  is  apparent  that  the  site  and  the 
exposure  are  of  primary  importance.  So 
far  as  situation  is  concerned,  a rise  of  ground 
and  an  easterly  exposure,  with  the  living- 
rooms  on  the  south  side,  is  undoubtedly 
the  pleasantest.  During  the  summer  the 


The  Perfect  House. 


19 


prevailing  west  wind  blows  the  dust  of  the 
street  in  the  opposite  direction  ; during 
winter  the  living-rooms  are  open  to  the 
light  and  sun.  The  comfort  of  the  house 
during  summer,  and  the  outer  prospect 
from  within  during  winter,  will  depend  in 
no  small  degree  upon  the  proper  planting 
of  the  grounds. 

Deciduous  trees,  and  here  the  variety  is 
great,  will  shade  and  cool  it  in  summer, 
evergreens  will  furnish  and  warm  its  sur- 
roundings in  winter  ; while  for  a great 
portion  of  the  year  the  hardy  flower-gar- 
den, including  the  shrubberies  that  screen 
the  grounds  from  the  highway,  and  the 
climbers  which  disburse  their  bloom  and 
fragrance  over  its  verandas  and  porches, 
will  contribute  largely  to  its  beauty  and 
attractiveness. 

Somehow  I can  not  look  upon  my 
house  by  itself,  without  including  as  acces- 
sories, nay,  as  essential  parts  of  it,  its  out- 
ward surroundings  and  external  Nature — 
the  woods  whence  its  joists  and  rafters 
were  hewed,  the  earth  that  supplied  its  mor- 
tar, brick,  and  stone,  the  coal  whence  it  de- 
rives its  light  and  heat,  the  trees  that  ward 
off  the  wind  in  winter  and  shield  it  from  the 
sun  in  summer,  the  garden  which  contrib- 
utes its  flowers,  the  orchards  and  vineyards 
that  supply  its  fruits,  the  teeming  fields  and 
pastures  that  continuously  yield  the  largess 
2 


20 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


of  their  corn,  and  flocks,  and  herds.  From 
each  of  these  my  house  and  I receive  a 
tithe. 

My  purpose,  however,  even  were  I able 
to  do  the  subject  justice,  is  not  to  treat  of 
the  adornment  of  gardens,  of  architectural 
styles,  expression  of  purpose  in  building, 
or  the  proper  exterior  form  for  the  Ameri- 
can town-house  and  country  villa.  There 
remain,  nevertheless,  some  features  of  the 
interior  of  the  home  to  which  I would  fain 
call  attention,  though  even  here,  more  than 
in  the  matter  of  the  exterior,  opinions  ne- 
cessarily differ.  Every  house,  methinks, 
should  possess  its  distinctive  character,  its 
individual  sentiment  or  expression  ; and 
this  depends  less  upon  the  architect  and 
the  professional  decorator  than  upon  the 
taste  reflected  by  the  occupants.  And  yet 
there  is  nothing  so  bizarre  or  atrocious 
that  it  will  not  please  some  ; there  exists 
nothing  so  perfect  as  to  please  all. 

Shall  the  ideal  house  be  large  or  small  ? 
Excellent  results  may  follow  in  either  case 
in  intelligent,  thoughtful  hands.  Where 
money  is  merely  a secondary  object,  then 
the  great  luxuriously  furnished  rooms,  the 
lofty  ceilings,  the  grand  halls  and  stair- 
cases, the  picture  gallery,  the  music,  bill- 
iard, and  ball  rooms,  the  house  of  mag- 
nificent distances  and  perspectives.  # Still 
man  is  not  content ; for  such  a house,  to 


The  Perfect  House. 


21 


be  beautiful,  calls  for  constant  care,  a retinue 
of  servants,  a blaze  of  light,  a round  of 
visitors  and  entertainments  to  populate  its 
vast  apartments  and  render  it  companion- 
able. The  house  to  entertain  in  and  the 
house  to  live  in  are  generally  two  sepa- 
rate things;  but,  of  the  two,  you  want  to 
live  in  your  house  more  than  to  entertain 
in  it. 

Doubtless,  even  to  those  possessed  of 
abundant  means,  the  medium-sized  house, 
sufficiently  roomy  for  all  ordinary  purposes 
and  yet  cosy  enough  for  family  comfort,  is 
the  most  satisfactory.  In  daily  domestic 
life  you  do  not  become  lost  and  absorbed 
in  its  magnitude  ; and  for  the  matter  of 
entertainments,  on  a large  scale,  you  always 
have  the  resource  of  a “hall,”  with  no 
further  trouble  beyond  that  of  issuing  the 
invitations  and  liquidating  the  bills.  In 
the  ideal  dwelling-house  of  medium  size 
even  this  will  be  dispensed  with,  while 
still  preserving  the  charm  of  privacy — one 
has  simply  to  add  a supplementary  supper- 
room  and  an  ample  ball-room,  to  be  thrown 
open  only  on  special  occasions  for  the  ac- 
commodation of  the  overflow.  Thus  it 
would  be  possible  to  avoid  a barn  to  live 
in,  and  a cote  to  entertain  in. 

The  great  thing  in  house  planning  is  to 
think  ahead,  and  still  think  ahead.  The 
hall  which  looks  so  spacious  on  paper  is 


22 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


sure  to  contract,  and  ordinary-sized  rooms 
will  shrink  perceptibly  when  they  come  to 
be  furnisTied.  It  is  important  that  the 
spaces  between  the  doors  and  windows, 
the  proportionate  height  of  the  doors  and 
windows,  the  many  little  conveniencies, 
and  innumerable  minor  yet  major  details, 
like  the  placing  of  mantels,  registers,  chan- 
deliers and  side-lights,  be  planned  by  the 
occupant,  and  not  left  to  the  mercy  of 
the  architect.  The  latter  will  place  the 
mantel  on  the  side  of  a long,  narrow  room, 
thereby  diminishing  the  width  several  feet, 
when  it  should  go  at  the  end.  He  will 
hang  the  doors  so  they  will  bump  together, 
or  open  on  the  side  you  do  not  want  them 
to  open  on.  If  he  concede  you  a spacious 
hall  and  library,  he  will  stint  the  vestibule, 
or  be  a miser  when  he  doles  out  the  space 
for  the  stairway  landing  or  the  butler’s 
pantry.  And  what  architect  will  stop  to 
think  of  that  most  important  of  household 
institutions—a  roomy,  convenient,  con- 
cealed catch-all,  or  rather  a series  of  catch- 
alls ! 

Even  so  simple  a contrivance  as  an  in- 
visible small  wardrobe  in  the  wall  adjoin- 
ing the  entrance— a receptacle  for  hats, 
wraps,  and  waterproofs — he  has  never  yet 
devised.  Every  hall  must  of  necessity  be 
littered  up  with  that  hideous  contrivance, 
a hat-rack,  in  a more  or  less  offensive  form, 


The  Perfect  House. 


23 


when  at  a touch  a panel  in  the  wainscot 
might  fly  open  to  joyfully  engulf  the  outer 
vesture  of  visitors.  You  must  see  your 
house  planned  and  furnished  with  the  in- 
ward eye  ere  the  foundation  is  laid,  and 
exercise  the  clairvoyant’s  art  if  you  would 
not  be  disappointed  when  it  is  finally  ready 
for  habitation.  The  question  of  closet- 
room  is  best  left  to  the  mistress  of  the 
house,  otherwise  it  is  certain  to  be  stinted  ; 
and  it  were  economy  in  the  end  to  secure 
the  services  of  a competent  chef  to  plan  the 
kitchen  and  its  accessories — that  tributary 
of  the  home  through  whose  savory  or  un- 
savory channels  so  great  a wave  of  human 
enjoyment  or  dolor  flows. 

It  is  with  houses  very  much  as  it  is  with 
gardens — no  two  are  ever  precisely  alike  ; 
so  far  at  least  as  the  interior  of  the  former 
is  concerned.  Both  reflect,  or  should  re- 
flect, through  a hundred  different  ways  and 
niceties  of  adjustment  and  arrangement,  the 
individual  tastes  of  those  who  are  instru- 
mental in  their  creation.  The  ideal  house 
must  first  be  conceived  by  those  who  are 
to  dwell  in  it,  modeled  according  to  their 
requirements,  mirroring  their  ideas,  their 
refinement,  and  their  conceptions  of  the 
useful  and  the  beautiful.  By  different  per- 
sons these  ends  are  approached  by  different 
ways.  So  long  as  we  attain  the  desired 
end,  the  route  thereto  is  of  little  conse- 


24 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


quence.  But  in  the  ideal  house,  it  may  be 
observed,  a little  money  and  a good  deal  of 
taste  go  a very  great  way. 

All  the  eyes  of  Argus  and  all  the  clubs 
of  Hercules  must  need  be  yours,  would  you 
see  your  house  perfectly  planned  and  per- 
fectly constructed.  The  terrible  gantlet  one 
has  to  run  ! He  who  builds  should  have 
nothing  to  divert  his  mind  from  the  task.  It 
is  the  work  of  a life-time  crowded  into  a 
year. 

And  when  all  is  done,  and  the  lights 
are  turned  on  and  the  house  is  peopled 
with  its  guests,  who  is  there  that  is  fully 
content  with  the  result  of  his  labor  ? who 
that  finds  in  the  fruition  the  full  promise  of 
the  bloom  ? The  perfect  house  in  itself  ex- 
ists no  more  than  the  perfect  man  or  wo- 
man. We  can  at  best  set  up  an  exalted 
standard  of  excellence  to  approximate  as 
nearly  as  we  may.  It  is  very  much  in 
building  as  it  is  in  life,  where  content  with 
what  we  have  is,  after  all,  the  true  source 
of  happiness.  “ I long  ago  lost  a hound, 
a bay  horse,  and  a turtle-dove,  and  am 
still  on  their  trail,”  is  the  burden  of  Wal- 
den. How  many  of  us  are  not  likewise  in 
quest  of  the  something  that  ever  eludes  ? 
When  we  think  we  have  come  up  with 
the  fox,  it  is  but  his  shadow  we  seize ; he 
himself  has  already  vanished  round  the  ra- 
vine. We  follow,  but  may  not  overtake, 


The  Perfect  House. 


25 


at  will,  the  siren  that  the  poet  beckoned  for 
in  vain  : 

Ah,  sweet  Content ! where  doth  thine  harbor  hold  ? 

Is  it  in  churches  with  religious  men 

Which  please  the  gods  with  prayers  manifold, 

And  in  their  studies  meditate  it  then  ? 

Whether  thou  dost  in  heaven  or  earth  appear, 

Be  where  thou  wilt,  thou  wilt  not  harbor  here.* 

What  philosopher  among  all  who  have 
moralized  and  analyzed  has  discovered  the 
sought-for  stone  ? Amiel  failed  in  the  pur- 
suit : “I  am  always  waiting  for  the  woman 
and  the  work  which  shall  be  capable  of 
taking  entire  possession  of  my  soul,  and  of 
becoming  my  end  and  aim.  ” “A  man’s  hap- 
piness,” says  Alphonse  Karr,  in  an  apothegm 
worthy  of  La  Bruyere,  “consists  in  that 
which  he  has  not  got,  or  that  which  he  no 
longer  has.”  The  coveted  bauble  palls 
when  it  is  finally  ours,  the  “dove”  escapes, 
and  we  all  grow  old.  Absolute  happi- 
ness flees  when  we  enter  our  ’teens.  Me- 
thinks  the  French  poet  Chenier  has  resolved 
the  experience  of  most  of  us  with  reference 
to  a certain  phase  of  life  as  felicitously  as 
any  of  those  who  have  endured  and  felt  : 

Tout  homme  a ses  douleurs.  Mais  aux  yeux  de  ses 
freres 

Chacun  d’un  front  serein  deguise  ses  miseres, 

Chacun  ne  plaint  que  soi.  Chacun  dans  son  ennui 
Envie  un  autre  humain  qui  se  plaint  comme  lui. 


* Barnabe  Barnes. 


26 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


Nul  des  autres  mortels  ne  mesure  les  peines, 

Qu’ils  savent  tous  cacher  comme  il  cache  les  siennes, 

Et  chacun,  l’oeil  en  pleurs,  en  son  coeur  douloureux 
Se  dit  : Excepte  moi,  tout  le  monde  est  heureux. 

Each  man  his  sorrows  hath  ; but,  in  his  brothers’  eyes, 
Each  one  with  brow  serene  his  troubles  doth  disguise. 
Each  of  himself  complains  ; each  one,  in  weariness, 
Envies  a fellow-man  who  mourns  in  like  distress. 

None  measureth  the  pains  that  all  as  well  conceal 
As  he  himself  doth  hide  the  griefs  that  he  doth  feel  ; 
And  each,  with  tearful  eye,  says  in  his  sorrowing  heart, 
Excepting  me,  the  world  with  happiness  hath  part. 

Yet,  I like  to  think,  and  cherish  the  thought, 
when  the  cloud  reveals  no  silver  lining,  that 
however  disappointing  some  phases  of  life 
may  be,  some  experiences  of  human  char- 
acter, there  are  bright  days  and  pleasant 
places  ahead  in  the  future,  somewhere  and 
sometime.  Happiness  is  coy  at  the  best, 
fickle  in  bestowing  her  favors;  and  we  find 
her  the  more  delightful,  possibly,  in  that,  like 
the  sunshine,  she  comes  and  goes.  We 
awaken  some  morning  to  find  her  present, 
and  the  next  morning  she  has  flown.  “ It 
sometimes  seemeth  that  when  we  least 
think  on  her  she  is  pleased  to  sport  with 
us.”  So  many  she  has  to  minister  to  that 
she  has  necessarily  but  a brief  period  to 
remain.  Still  I see  her  ever  laughing  with 
the  children  at  play,  and  find  her  lingering 
where  industry  abides.  Beside  the  humble 
board  of  the  laborer  she  is  often  found, 
while  frequently  passing  by  the  homes  of 


The  Perfect  House. 


27 


the  rich.  Over  gardens  and  fields  she  hov- 
ers on  pleasant  days  of  spring,  and  on 
blustering  winter  nights  I hear  the  rustle  of 
her  wings  above  the  poet’s  page.  The 
sunshine  that  sifts  through  the  window, 
warming  and  gilding  all  my  surround- 
ings, is  mine  to-day  ; to-morrow  it  may 
stream  elsewhere.  It  is  all  the  brighter 
when  it  comes  ; but  to  possess  it  I must 
open  wide  the  casement  to  let  in  the 
beams. 

Climbing  with  the  sunny  Rector  of  Ev- 
ersley  to  the  lonely  tarn  amid  the  hills— you 
have  read  and  admired  Chalk-Stream  Stud- 
ies; or,  if  not,  you  have  that  enjoyment  in 
store — I recall  the  moral  that  adorns  that 
delightful  essay.  “What  matter,”  he  hap- 
pily reasons,  “if,  after  two  hours  of  such 
enjoyment,  he  (the  angler)  goes  down 
again  into  the  world  of  man  with  empty 
creel  or  with  a dozen  pounders  or  two- 
pounders,  shorter,  gamer,  and  redder- 
fleshed  than  ever  came  out  of  Thames  or 
Kennet  ? What  matter  ? If  he  has  not 
caught  them,  he  might  have  caught  them ; 
he  has  been  catching  them  in  imagination 
all  the  way  up;  and  if  he  be  a minute  phi- 
losopher, he  holds  that  there  is  no  falser 
proverb  than  that  devil’s  beatitude,  ‘ Blessed 
is  he  who  expecteth  nothing,  for  he  shall 
not  be  disappointed.’  Say,  rather:  ‘Bless- 
ed is  he  who  expecteth  everything,  for  he 


28 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


enjoys  everything  once,  at  least;  and,  if  it 
falls  out  true,  twice  also.’  ” 

And  with  this  gentle  spirit,  despite  his 
many  trials,  Charles  Kingsley  lived  on 
through  life,  shedding  sunshine  and  cheer 
from  the  vine-embowered  rectory  at  Evers- 
ley.  His  house  was  large  enough  for  his 
personal  comforts,  for  the  entertainment 
of  his  chosen  friends,  and  for  the  satisfac- 
tion of  his  domestic  requirements;  and  this 
sufficed.  Reflecting  the  “sweetness  and 
light”  of  his  own  nature,  it  became  the 
perfect  house  to  him  for  the  reason  that  he 
was  satisfied  with  his  surroundings.  The 
ideal  home  is  largely  the  handiwork  of  the 
contented  mind;  and  if  before  we  build 
we  learn  to  extract  the  finer  essences  of 
things,  we  may  then  pluck  the  rose  where 
others  only  find  the  thorn. 


II. 


OLD  ORIENTAL  MASTERS. 


It  is  certain  that  colors  exercise  an  influence  over  us 
to  the  extent  of  rendering  us  gay  or  sad,  according  to 
their  shades. — Voyage  Autour  de  ma  Chambre. 


floors  house,  where 

lard  - wc  Dors  exist,  are 
ihellacked.  This  imparts  an  ex- 
client  finish  without  darkening 
the  wood,  and  the  subsequent 


care  of  the  floor  is  slight.  Beneath  the 
rugs  the  finish  is  sand-papered  to  prevent 
them  from  sliding.  Oiling  floors  is  objec- 
tionable, the  wood  turning  dark,  and  ne- 
cessitating almost  daily  going  over  with  a 
damp  and  a dry  cloth  to  keep  them  clean. 
Waxing  is  a labor,  and  renders  the  floors 
slippery.  Varnishing  makes  a very  smooth 
surface,  easily  marred,  the  gloss  soon 
wearing  in  the  least  exposed  places. 

My  floors  must,  first  of  all,  be  subservi- 
ent and  subordinate  to  my  rugs.  By  shift- 
ing my  rugs  I immediately  change  the  color 
of  a room,  the  expression  of  my  house;  I 


3 o 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


may  cool  a room  in  summer  or  warm  it  in 
winter  at  will.  Beautiful  as  beautiful  paint- 
ings are  some  of  the  antique  Persian  and 
Conia  prayers,  and  the  marvelously  wrought 
Yourdes  and  ancient  Coulas.  I believe  there 
is  no  comprehensive  book  on  rugs.  Some 
enterprising  publisher  should  send  a capa- 
ble artist  to  Asia  for  a year  and  publish  an 
exhaustive  edition  de  luxe  to  supply  a long- 
felt  want.  An  artistic  work  of  this  nature 
would  be  as  desirable  as  an  edition  of  King 
Solomon’s  lost  book  on  gems.  For  color 
and  color-blending  we  must  go  to  the  Ori- 
entals; they  have  found  its  soul.  Who  else 
could  blend  greens  and  blues  so  felicitously, 
or  place  the  different  reds  in  riotous  juxta- 
position, or  combine  the  whole  gamut  of 
browns  with  the  entire  octave  of  yellows  ? 
They  play  with  colors  as  a musician  plays 
with  the  keys  of  an  instrument.  They  sound 
no  false  notes,  they  strike  no  discords.  I 
speak  of  the  art  as  exhibited  by  the  best 
masters.  There  are  plenty  of  daubs  and 
crudities,  it  is  true,  a single  specimen  of 
which  will  throw  a whole  house  into  an  en- 
tasia.  There  is  poor  sculpture  and  there  are 
poor  paintings.  The  finer  examples  of  the 
loom  deserve  to  be  stamped  with  the  artist’s 
name  just  as  much  as  a canvas  of  Gerome 
or  a love-song  of  Hafiz. 

There  can  be  nothing  more  artistic,  there 
is  nothing  more  seductive  than  these  old 


Old  Oriental  Masters. 


3' 


Asiatic  hand-paintings.  I am  drawn  and 
fascinated  by  their  weird  beauty.  What 
charms  do  they  not  reveal ! what  multi- 
plicity yet  harmony  of  hue  and  design  ! 
Though  not  unfrequently  repeating  them- 
selves in  the  same  piece,  color  and  design 
never  tire.  They  have  their  recurrent  beat 
and  rhythm,  like  the  harmonious  cadence  of 
the  Pantoum.  This  large  Afghan  rug,  for 
instance,  mellow  with  use  and  time,  the 
general  tone  of  which  resembles  that  of  a 
zircon,  is  composed  of  innumerable  shades 
of  red,  so  many  shades  I can  scarcely  count 
them,  one  shade  melting  into  another  shade 
— shades  of  shades — till  the  eye  renounces 
the  task  of  pursuit.  When  examined  close- 
ly, I find  even  magenta  has  been  employed 
by  the  craftsman,  to  become  in  his  hands 
a medium  of  beauty.  A European  pro- 
duces a stiff-set  pattern,  the  Oriental  a maze 
of  which  one  never  tires.  There  is  always 
an  unsuspected  figure  or  color  to  reveal  it- 
self, an  oddity  to  appear  suddenly,  new 
lights  and  new  shadows. 

In  coloring,  some  of  the  Afghans  touch 
closely  upon  the  Bokharas,  though  the 
former  are  less  closely  woven,  but  are  gen- 
erally less  set,  and  more  pleasing  in  design. 
As  a class,  I think  the  Bokharas  are  over- 
estimated, their  usual  lack  of  borders  or  in- 
distinct bordering  giving  them  an  unfin- 
ished look,  despite  their  fineness  of  texture 


32 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


and  the  gloss  of  their  terra-cotta  shades. 
My  large  thick  blue  Bokhara,  however,  is  a 
striking  departure  from  the  type,  and  I 
never  tire  of  admiring  its  artistic  frame  and 
its  kaleidoscopic  tints.  The  larger  red  Bok- 
haras,  where  the  pattern  is  fine,  the  texture 
thin  and  silky,  and  the  rug  straight,  are 
very  rich  and  handsome  used  as  full  single 
portieres.  But  a rug  when  hung,  or  used 
as  a portiere,  must  be  something  entirely 
out  of  the  ordinary  to  be  in  keeping,  rugs 
in  all  such  cases  virtually  competing  with 
and  taking  the  place  of  old  tapestries.  The 
substitute,  therefore,  should  afford  equal 
delight  to  the  eye.  I turn  this  closely- 
woven,  heavy  Shiraz,  with  the  nap  running 
toward  the  light,  and  its  forest  of  fluctuant 
palm  leaves  is  blue.  I spread  it  in  the  re- 
verse direction  to  see  its  color  change  like  a 
tourmaline,  and  the  field  become  resilient 
with  soft  rich  greens.  Dusty,  soiled,  and 
dingy  when  I first  saw  it  unrolled  from  the 
bale,  it  is  now  a gem,  alive  to  every  change 
of  light  and  shade.  Time  has  subdued 
its  original  strong  colors.  These  delicate 
gleams  of  buff  that  dance  upon  the  border 
were  once  a pronounced  brown-crimson, 
while  the  original  yellows  of  some  of  the 
figures  have  softened  to  pale  primrose.  Its 
blues  and  greens  are  alone  unfaded,  though 
refined  by  age.  The  artist  painted  better 
than  he  knew  ; or  did  he  designedly  leave 


Old  Oriental  Masters . 


33 


the  finishing  touches  to  the  master-hand  of 
Time  ? 

How  strange  this  patch  of  shadow  and 
yonder  gleam  of  light  in  this  ancient  Tiflis, 
the  shadow  shifting  to  light  and  the  light 
darkening  to  shadow,  as  I reverse  my  po- 
sition. The  cunning  designer  has  suddenly 
reversed  the  nap  in  the  center,  and  hence 
its  puzzling  changes.  I marvel  who  has 
knelt  upon  these  Conia  prayers,  in  whose 
glowing  centers  four  shades  of  blue  and 
four  shades  of  red  are  fused  so  impercepti- 
bly you  may  scarcely  tell  where  one  shade 
ends  and  another  begins — 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  knees  that  they  have  pressed 

In  their  bloom. 

Tender  tones  of  olive,  yellow,  and  blue 
lurk  in  some  of  the  old  Coulas,  and  suave 
tints  of  peach-blow  and  of  rose  gleam  in  the 
patterns  of  the  rarer  Kermans.  Generally 
speaking,  the  Coulas  possess  little  claim  to 
distinction.  But  the  finer  old  examples  are 
a marked  exception,  many  resembling  the 
Yourdes  prayers,  while  some  are  as  vel- 
vety and  intricate  in  design  as  the  old 
Meccas.  My  most  admired  Coula  (4X5) 
in  its  pattern  and  coloring  might  have  been 
copied  from  an  ancient  cathedral  window. 

This  yellow  Daghestan,  coined  four-score 
years  ago,  is  a veritable  field  of  the  cloth  of 


34 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


gold.  There  are  also  the  precious  old  Per- 
sian Sennas,  with  a diamond  flashing  in  the 
center,  and  a certain  weave  of  Anatolians 
with  a bloom  upon  them  like  that  of  a ripe 
plum,  so  velvety  one  wants  to  stroke  them 
just  for  the  pleasure  of  the  caress.  When 
viewed  against  the  nap,  they  look  almost 
black,  the  colors  hidden  by  the  heavy  fleece 
till  revealed  by  another  angle  of  view. 
What  strange  conceits,  what  fine-spun 
webs  of  tracery,  what  fillets,  tangles,  and 
tessellations  of  color  do  they  not  disclose  ! 

The  command  in  the  Khoran  prohibit- 
ing its  followers  from  reproducing  the  image 
of  living  things  has  not  been  without  its 
pronounced  advantage.  It  has  served  to 
develop  the  infinite  beauty  of  geometrical 
design.  Color-study  no  edict  of  Mohammed 
could  banish  ; it  is  a sixth  sense  reflected 
from  the  sky  and  atmosphere — a priceless 
gift  of  Allah  ! There  has  long  been  want- 
ing a well-defined  scale  to  describe  and 
place  the  different  shades  intelligibly,  just 
as  there  exists  a standard  of  weights  and 
measures  comprehensible  by  all.  Artists 
have  one  set  of  terms,  shopmen  and  milli- 
ners another  ; the  average  person  can  not 
define  a shade.  Who  can  place  the  hues 
of  a sunset  sky  ? There  needs-  to  be  a 
color-congress  to  form  a closer  chromatic 
scale,  and  the  task  belongs  by  right  to  the 
Orientals. 


Old  Oriental  Masters . 


35 


As  a class,  the  Kazaks  are  not  as  desir- 
able as  many  other  makes,  design  and  col- 
orings frequently  being  so  obtrusive,  and 
the  weave  usually  being  marked  by  coarse- 
ness. Yet  some  Kazaks  there  are  of  re- 
markable beauty.  My  best  examples  of  Ka- 
zak art  are  done  in  cardinal  and  old  gold. 
The  one  is  an  antique,  6x7,  thin  and 
finely  woven,  the  ground-work  in  three 
shades  of  red,  with  the  ‘ ‘ tree  pattern  ” raised 
in  black  upon  the  field,  and  a storm  of 
white  flakes  scattered  over  it.  The  other 
is  a very  old  piece  of  nearly  similar  size,  in 
perfect  preservation,  so  heavy  that  to  lift  it 
is  a task.  Its  luster  is  marvelous.  The 
pattern  is  one  of  the  most  admired  of  all 
the  Kazak  patterns  when  the  colors  are 
happily  employed,  consisting  of  squares 
within  squares  or  octagons  variously  dis- 
persed upon  the  field,  the  largest  figure  in 
the  center.  The  colors  consist  simply  of 
four  shades  of  yellow,  the  exquisite  play  of 
light  and  shade  produced  by  the  glossy 
texture  of  the  wool  employed  and  the  fre- 
quent shiftings  of  the  nap  heightening  the 
effect.  It  is  my  Asian  Diaz,  and  my  ship 
contained  it  among  her  precious  stores. 

Always  among  the  most  beautiful  of 
Persian  and  Turkish  rugs  are  those  of  vari- 
ous makes  not  often  met  with,  that,  excep- 
tionally heavy  and  glossy,  possess  a simi- 
lar tone  to  that  of  the  Kazak  just  specified 
3 


^6 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


— blendings  and  interblendings  of  russet, 
chestnut,  fawn,  and  fallow.  To  me  their 
sleek  and  velvety  pile,  their  striped  and 
spotted  surfaces,  their  turmoil  of  tawny 
hues,  possess  an  attraction  akin  to  that  of 
the  wild  beasts  of  the  remote  Eastern  jun- 
gle. Looking  at  them,  I instinctively  re- 
call a carnivorous  animal — fascinating  in  his 
fulvous  beauty,  supreme  in  his  splendor  and 
his  sheen.  These  graceful  arabesques,  are 
they  not  like  the  curving  haunches  of  some 
huge  cat  of  the  desert  ? These  lucent  spots 
and  markings,  do  they  not  resemble  the 
shimmering  pelt  of  a couchant  carnivore? 
A strange  fascination  they  possess  for  me;  a 
subdued  ferity,  even  to  the  animal  odor  that 
clings  about  their  lambent  folds;  and,  some- 
times, the  gleams  as  of  feline  eyes  that  peer 
from  the  dots  of  their  borders. 

The  Yourdes  are  among  the  few  weaves 
that  do  not  acquire  an  additional  value  from 
silkiness.  Time  mellows  their  naturally 
soft  shades,  and  use  imparts  to  them  a 
slight  luster.  But  their  great  value  consists 
in  detail  of  design  and  contrast  of  a few 
colors — black  and  dark  bands  on  a gray- 
white  ground  for  the  border,  the  plain 
prayer-disks  usually  of  gray,  blue,  green, 
or  maroon.  The  warp  and  nap  being  rela- 
tively thin,  and  color  and  design  not  being 
dependent  upon  strong  or  direct  light  to 
emphasize  them,  they  are  excellently  adapt- 


Old  Oriental  Masters. 


31 


ed  for  hangings — indeed,  they,  are  too  ten- 
der and  precious  to  be  placed  upon  the  floor. 
The  antique  Yourdes  prayers  usually  come 
in  sizes  about  4X6,  and  are  deservedly 
among  the  most  prized  among  Oriental 
textiles.  Some  of  the  finer  Persians  are 
equally  suitable  for  hangings.  By  Persians 
I refer  to  what  is  known  as  “ Persian 
prayers,”  the  term  being  used  to  designate 
a certain  class  of  Persian  fabrics  with  cen- 
ters of  self-colors,  to  which,  for  some  un- 
explained reason,  a more  definite  name  is 
not  given.  More  strictly  speaking,  with 
double  disks,  the  larger  one  plain  and  the 
smaller  partially  embroidered  or  figured, 
the  arabesque  “a”  and  typical  Shiraz  fig- 
ure generally  present  in  the  border.  These 
Persians  are  recognizable  at  a glance.  Can 
we  wonder  the  Moslem  is  so  resigned  to 
prayer  with  such  prie-Dieus  to  kneel  upon  ! 

Under  the  term  Daghestan  are  lumped 
the  makes  of  this  and  numerous  other  dis- 
tricts, the  designs  of  which  are  somewhat 
similar.  There  are  very  many  fine  true 
Daghestans  and  Kubas,  as  well  as  very 
many  poor  ones,  the  old  examples  being 
relatively  much  handsomer  than  the  mod- 
ern. The  ordinary  Daghestan  border  re- 
peats itself  far  too  often,  and  its  common- 
ness mars  many  an  otherwise  valuable 
work  of  art.  Next  to  the  Meccas,  the 
Daghestans  are  probably  among  the  most 


38 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


crooked  of  the  products  of  Eastern  looms, 
and  numberless  specimens  of  extraordinary 
sheen  and  rare  design  and  coloring  are 
virtually  spoiled  on  this  account.  A long 
strip  frequently  has  a horse-shoe  curve,  and 
even  very  small  pieces  are  often  so  much 
broader  at  one  end  as  to  prove  positively 
distressing  to  the  sense  of  proportion. 

The  finer  Meccas,  distinguished  for  ex- 
treme softness  and  silkiness,  combined  with 
intricacy  and  pronounced  individuality  of 
design,  are  generally  not  only  very  crooked, 
but  gathered  and  puffed  at  the  corners  as 
well.  A straight  Mecca  one  rarely  sees 
except  in  dreams.  This  is  to  be  deplored, 
for  their  lovely  arabesques  and  gracious 
fantasies  are  not  to  be  met  with  else- 
where. A search  for  absolute  geomet- 
rical precision  in  Oriental  rugs,  however, 
would  be  like  Kaphira’s  pursuit  of  the  gold- 
en ball.  They  are  made  and  painted  by 
hand,  and  not  cut  out  by  machine.  There- 
in consists  their  enchantment.  Neverthe- 
less, one  should  only  look  for  and  secure 
comparatively  straight  specimens  ; the  very 
crooked,  the  very  crude,  and  the  very  glar- 
ing are  worthless  at  any  price.  “A  cur’s 
tail,”  says  a Turkish  adage,  “may  be 
warmed  and  pressed  and  bound  round  with 
ligatures,  and  after  a twelve  years’  labor  be- 
stowed upon  it,  still  it  will  retain  its  natural 
form.”  The  dog  in  the  adage  was  intend- 


Old  Oriental  Masters. 


39 


ed,  not  for  a Christian,  but  for  a rug.  No 
wetting,  stretching  and  tacking  will  remove 
its  aged  seams  and  wrinkles— 

What  nature  hath  not  taught,  no  art  can  frame  : 

Wild  born  be  wild  still,  though  by  force  you  tame.* 

Distinct  from  all  other  productions  are 
the  Kourdestans,  notably  the  large  anchor- 
pattern.  These  are  difficult  to  manage, 
however,  the  design  being  so  striking. 
Very  large  figures  or  very  glaring  colors 
are  on  this  account  to  be  avoided.  They 
tyrannize  over  their  companions,  or  clash 
with  surrounding  objects.  The  eye  is  per- 
petually directed  to  them  and  they  disturb 
the  sense  of  repose.  Many  specimens  of 
the  Carabaghs  are  remarkable  for  their 
beautiful  combination  of  colors,  especially 
in  the  blending  of  reds,  olives,  and  blues. 
The  nap  is  generally  very  heavy,  and  the 
wool  employed  not  unfrequently  of  extreme 
glossiness,  imparting  almost  an  oily  look  to 
the  surface.  The  rather  large  hexagonal 
figures,  moreover,  without  being  glaring 
are  usually  artistic  and  striking.  Hand- 
some are  many  of  the  Persian  camel’s-hair 
rugs,  unique  in  design  and  usually  of  very 
subdued  colors. 

The  Cashmeres  or  Somaks  are  lacking 
in  animation  compared  with  many  other 


* Thomas  Campion,  Third  Booke  of  Ayres. 


40 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


weaves.  Individuality  they  possess,  but 
neither  sheen,  softness  of  texture,  nor 
marked  grace  of  design.  For  the  dining- 
room, the  most  serviceable  rugs  are  the 
large  India,  and  the  Turkish  Ouchaks, 
though  when  obtainable  some  of  the  finer 
large  Khorassans  and  Persians  are  equally 
desirable.  Both  of  the  latter  are  finer  than 
the  Ouchaks,  and  old  pieces  possess  a 
brilliant  luster  which  the  Ouchaks  lack. 
The  fine  large  thick  India  rugs  are  among 
the  most  magnificent  in  the  world,  soft  as 
a houri’s  cheek,  and  diapered  and  jeweled 
with  every  shade  of  color  ; yet  harmonious 
as  the  play  of  an  opal.  It  is  impossible  to 
conceive  of  more  superb  color-blending. 

While  age  is  unquestionably  an  impor- 
tant factor  in  the  beauty  of  a rug,  one  should 
by  no  means  cast  aside  a new  rug  if  the 
example  be  exceptionally  fine,  and  its  de- 
sign or  coloring  may  not  be  obtained  in  an 
antique.  It  will  require  time,  I admit,  to 
develop  its  beauties.  But  by  subjecting  it 
to  light  and  constant  use  its  original  crude- 
ness will  gradually  depart,  and  each  year  of 
service  will  heighten  its  bloom.  Against 
the  crude  new  fabric  must  be  placed  the  far 
more  objectionable  form  of  “antique,”  torn 
and  thread-bare  from  rough  usage,  or  soiled 
and  faded  beyond  redemption.  Neither 
may  it  be  amiss  to  caution  the  novice,  and 
many  so-styled  amateurs,  against  the  not 


Old  Oriental  Masters. 


4i 


unfrequent  practice  of  dealers — aye,  of  mer- 
chants in  Constantinople,  Ispahan,  and 
even  Mecca  itself— of  painting  old  rugs  to 
mask  their  sordid  condition,  and  gloze  over 
their  hoary  antiquity. 

Could  the  history  of  an  old  rug  be 
traced,  what  a tale  might  it  not  unfold  ! — 
the  Adventures  of  a Guinea  were  nothing 
in  comparison.  Venerable  before  it  was 
secured  by  the  itinerant  collector  in  some 
remote  province,  how  many  vicissitudes 
and  changes  has  it  not  passed  through! 
Lashed  to  the  backs  of  patient  dromedaries 
goaded  by  the  spears  of  fierce  dragomen; 
borne  under  the  heat  of  a tropical  sun  amid 
the  toilsome  march  of  the  caravan;  and 
escaping  the  rapine  of  plundering  tribes,  it 
arrived  at  the  great  marts  of  the  East. 
Here,  unstrapped  from  the  bale,  it  passed  to 
the  bazaars,  or  the  vast  warerooms  of  the 
merchantmen.  There,  perchance,  its  lovely 
sheen  caught  the  eye  of  a calculating  mid- 
dleman, who  purchased  the  bale  to  secure 
the  prize,  passing  it  in  turn  to  a third.  Or, 
while  ransacking  the  treasures  of  a Stam- 
boul  bazaar  it  was,  perhaps,  admired  by  a 
rich  profligate — a bauble  for  a new-found 
flame.  Or,  did  it  figure  in  the  collection  of 
some  noted  connoisseur  whose  effects  on 
his  demise  passed  into  unconversant  or  in- 
different hands?  Youth  and  beauty  may 
have  reposed  upon  it,  and  old  age  admired 


42 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


its  bewitching  hues.  It  may  have  over- 
heard many  a lover’s  tale;  it  may  once 
have  graced  a pasha’s  wall. 

In  fine  Oriental  rugs  mere  size  seldom 
governs  their  value,  this  being  dependent 
upon  intrinsic  beauty  and  rarity.  Of  course, 
a splendid  large  piece  is  more  valuable  than 
a similar  example  half  its  size,  although  the 
fine  large  piece  may  not  be  worth  the  rarer 
small  one  of  some  other  make.  Oddity 
and  rarity,  when  combined  with  beauty, 
are  the  strongest  factors  in  the  value  of  a 
rug.  A sage-green  or  mauve  centered 
Yourdes,  6x4,  may  be  without  price,  as 
a small  Rembrandt  may  command  a hun- 
dred times  the  price  of  a canvas  double 
its  size.  It  all  depends  upon  the  artist. 
Neither  is  thickness  nor  silkiness  a necessary 
factor  in  the  value  of  a rug.  Depth  of  pile 
is  certainly  desirable  in  very  many  makes, 
a heavy  piece  keeping  its  place  upon  the 
floor  far  better  than  a thin  one.  Silkiness 
is  likewise  valuable  in  most  cases;  it  im- 
parts additional  life,  and  enhances  the  play 
of  the  color  facets.  But  in  rugs  like  the 
rarer  Yourdes  and  some  of  the  old  Persians 
and  Coulas,  neither  depth  of  pile  nor  ex- 
traordinary luster  govern  their  value.  These 
are  paintings — old  masters — that  should  be 
hung,  to  be  admired  like  a picture  or  a 
stained-glass  window,  and  the  eye  revel  in 
their  beauty. 


Old  Oriental  Masters. 


43 


But  my  rugs  are  more  than  mere  foci  of 
color  and  revelations  of  Eastern  luxury. 
They  are,  above  all,  examples  of  a rare 
handicraft;  enduring  expressions  of  artistic 
skill  of  various  times  and  various  peoples. 
They  thus  become  sentient  instead  of  simply 
material,  their  exuberance  of  hue  and  opu- 
lence of  design  representing  the  most  con- 
summate art,  and  appealing  equally  to  me 
through  the  various  motives  of  human  in- 
dustry, human  interest,  and  human  thought. 
In  them  are  incorporated  the  sense  of  the 
beautiful  as  interpreted  by  the  canons  of 
Oriental  art,  a distinct  artistic  motive  and 
theme  underlying  the  technical  finish  and 
manual  skill  of  the  craftsman.  Nor  is  spir- 
itual quality  less  reflected  in  these  master- 
pieces than  the  fine  aestheticism  with  which 
they  are  pervaded ; they  express  equally  a 
religious  symbolism  of  the  Oriental  mind, 
and  the  mystic  rites  observed  in  the  mosque 
of  Islam.  Just  as  painting  and  sculpture 
are  representative  arts  of  Christian  peoples, 
so  these  marvelous  blendings  of  form  and 
color  are  typical  of  the  individuality  of  the 
Mohammedan  alien  race. 

Endless  is  their  variety.  Independent 
of  the  diversity  of  the  different  wools 
employed,  each  district  has  its  character- 
istic patterns,  its  peculiar  weaves,  and  often 
its  distinguishing  colors  and  color-combi- 
nations which  are  its  individual  right  and 


44 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


inheritance,  and  which  other  districts  may 
not  reproduce  without  incurring  the  op- 
probrium attached  to  the  plagiarist.  Ana- 
tolia may  not  borrow  from  Bokhara,  nor 
Daghestan  from  Beloochistan.  Nor  may  one 
rug  of  a district  be  an  exact  reproduction 
of  another  rug  of  the  same  district.  There 
may  be  a resemblance,  it  is  true;  but  each 
valuable  example  will  be  found  to  possess 
a stamp  of  originality — the  genius  of  the 
artist — which  gives  it  its  value  and  con- 
stitutes the  difference  between  the  mere 
commercial  product  and  the  enduring  work 
of  art.  Thou  shalt  not  purloin  the  work  of 
another’s  brain  ! is  a commandment  em- 
bossed upon  the  loom  of  the  Oriental — a 
law  of  the  Medes  and  Persians  generally 
observed  unto  this  day. 

Valuable  as  a well-chosen  collection  of 
porcelains  is  a well-chosen  collection  of  rugs. 
While  neither  may  be  dispensed  with  as 
art  objects,  and  both  afford  a constant  de- 
light to  the  eye  and  the  sense  of  the  beau- 
tiful, it  may  be  said  that  textiles  have  the 
advantage  over  porcelains  in  that  they  can 
not  break,  and  that  they  combine  utility 
with  equal  charm  and  more  extended  color. 
It  is,  withal,  a satisfaction  to  know  that 
every  footfall  upon  their  luxurious  pile  and 
every  beam  of  sunlight  that  streams  upon 
them  only  serve  to  increase  their  value  and 
heighten  their  beauty. 


Old  Oriental  Masters. 


45 


In  the  course  of  time,  no  doubt — aye, 
at  no  distant  day,  as  fine  old  specimens 
become  more  and  more  rare  and  occupy, 
as  they  deserve,  a still  more  exalted  place 
in  the  domain  of  art — we  will  have  exhibi- 
tions of  Oriental  rugs,  as  we  have  exhib- 
its of  paintings  and  statuary  to-day.  The 
appreciative  and  wealthy  amateur  who,  in 
a single  purchase,  recently  expended  nine- 
teen thousand  dollars  for  twelve  specimens 
of  the  Asiatic  weaver’s  art — specimens  that 
may  not  now  be  duplicated — will  then  be 
envied  for  his  foresight  and  the  cheapness 
of  his  purchase. 

To  form  a fine,  varied,  and  extensive 
collection  of  rugs,  however,  is  the  work  of 
years.  As  Paganini  declared,  after  a life- 
time of  study,  that  he  had  just  begun  to  be 
acquainted  with  his  violin,  so  the  connois- 
seur may  say  with  regard  to  the  textiles  he 
loves  so  well.  For  every  piece  should  be 
like  a painting,  perfect  of  its  kind,  artistic 
in  design,  harmonious  in  color ; and  to 
combine  the  desired  qualifications  without 
incongruities  or  repetition  of  borders  and 
patterns  is  to  tread  no  primrose  path.  Not 
only  a concent  of  color  and  design  is  requi- 
site in  each  single  example,  but  rarity,  lus- 
ter, age,  good  condition,  and  individuality 
— a combination  not  easily  obtainable. 

But  my  ship  contained  many  straight 
and  beautiful  rugs  among  her  stores  ! 


SIGNS  IN  THE  SKY. 

Nunquam  imprudentibus  imber  obfuit. 

Virgil,  Georgics,  I,  v.  373. 

ooking  out  through  the  windows 
of  my  house  upon  the  sunset 
sky,  I am  often  enabled  to  frame 
a weather  report  for  the  mor- 
row; for,  in  his  rising  and  his 
setting,  the  sun  has  a message  to  convey, 
sometimes  written  in  type  that  is  legible  to 
all,  sometimes  in  hieroglyphics  that  the  or- 
dinary observer  may  not  decipher.  Yonder 
blazing  fire  in  the  west  and  warm  orange 
after-glow  tell  me  I may  expect  fair  weather, 
just  as  the  leaden  cloud  which  screens  the 
sinking  sun  apprises  me  of  coming  storm. 
But  to  offset  one  aspect  of  the  plainly  let- 
tered sky,  there  are  a score  more  difficult  to 
read,  while,  at  best,  we  are  liable  to  err  in 
our  interpretations  where  the  weather  is 
concerned. 

Yet,  trying  as  it  often  is,  in  this  latitude 
especially,  how  could  we  dispense  with  its 


Signs  in  the  Sky. 


47 


vagaries  ? Sunshine,  by  all  means ! but  we 
would  scarcely  appreciate  the  sun  if  it  al- 
ways shone,  even  could  vegetation  and  hu- 
manity exist  under  unclouded  skies. 

Were  all  the  year  one  constant  sunshine,  wee 
Should  have  no  flowres; 

All  would  be  drought  and  leanness ; not  a tree 
Would  make  us  bowres.* 

It  has  been  observed  before  now  that  we 
are  always  talking  about  the  weather,  al- 
ways interested  in  it,  always  trying  to  fore- 
tell it,  always  grumbling  at  it,  or  delighted 
with  it.  Without  the  changes  of  the 
weather  the  world  would  go  all  awry. 
There  would  be  no  more  guessing  or  prog- 
nosticating. Conversation  must  come  to  a 
standstill ; if  not  to  a full  stop,  at  least  to  an 
awkward  pause.  When  there  is  nothing 
else  to  talk  about  there  is  always  the  weath- 
er. It  is  the  oil  of  conversation’s  wheel. 
How  many  a pleasant  acquaintance  dates 
from  a weather  remark  ! Simply  as  a con- 
versational factor  I have  no  doubt  it  has 
helped  on  innumerable  marriages.  But  it 
is  ever  too  hot  or  too  cold,  too  damp  or 
too  dry,  too  cloudy  or  too  sunshiny.  If  one 
can  not  openly  anathematize  his  neighbor, 
he  may  damn  the  weather;  faint,  indeed,  is 
its  praise.  With  a bright  sun  shining,  a 
purple  haze  on  the  hills,  the  thermometer  at 


* Henry  Vaughn,  Silex  Scintillans. 


48 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


50°,  and  the  atmosphere  exhilarating  as 
champagne,  still  the  lament  will  arise  that 
we  are  not  enveloped  with  a blanket  of 
snow.  Just  the  day  for  a walk,  when  one 
may  start  out  dry-shod  to  inhale  the  stimu- 
lating air  and  bask  in  voluptuous  sunlight! 
But  the  fickle  weather-vane  suddenly 
veers,  and  north  wind  and  snow  are  ex- 
changed for  south  wind  and  balm  ; the 
croakers  have  their  turn. 

There  is  reason  to  believe  that  the 
weather  repeats  itself  in  a general  way  at 
regular  intervals  of  seven  or  ten  years,  more 
or  less.  Statistics  are  said  to  confirm  this 
statement,  and  it  gives  us  reason  to  hope 
that  when  our  records  shall  cover  longer 
periods  and  shall  be  more  carefully  and 
fully  compiled,  we  may  obtain  considerable 
insight  into  the  weather  programme  for  the 
coming  year.  That  one  extreme  follows 
another  is  perhaps  the  surest  and  most 
valuable  weather  indicator  we  have.  An 
inordinate  degree  of  warmth  is  generally 
followed  by  a corresponding  degree  of  cold; 
a period  of  extraordinary  coolness  by  a con- 
trasting period  of  heat.  The  amount  of 
water  and  heat  in  the  world  is  always  the 
same,  though  to  human  observation  the  ex- 
tremes of  temperature  are  capriciously  dis- 
tributed. If  it  is  passing  cold  here,  it  is  pass- 
ing warm  somewhere  else.  If  we  get  an 
overplus  of  wet  this  month  we  receive  an 


Signs  in  the  Sky. 


49 


overplus  of  dry  next  month,  or  some  month 
after.  Nature  will  surely  balance  her  ledger 
sooner  or  later;  the  difficulty  is  to  tell  when 
she  will  do  it. 

Restless  and  impatient,  man  is  continu- 
ally seeking  change.  What  could  supply 
this  inherent  craving  in  the  breast  of  man- 
kind so  happily  as  the  weather  ? The  old 
adage,  “Tis  an  ill  wind  blows  no  man 
good,”  is  daily  verified.  This  change  to 
piercing  cold  means  one  hundred  thousand 
tons  more  of  coal  for  the  furnaces  of  each  of 
the  great  cities ; this  hot  wave,  one  hundred 
thousand  tons  more  of  ice  to  their  refrigera- 
tors. The  mild  winter  that  brings  a scowl 
upon  the  dry-goods  merchant’s  face  is  a 
benison  to  the  laborer;  the  east  wind  that 
puts  out  the  inland  furnace  fires  may  blow 
the  disabled  vessel  into  port.  Blowing 
where  it  listeth,  to  some  point  of  the  com- 
pass the  wind  is  kind. 

If  one  could  find  no  other  occupation, 
one  might  busy  himself  in  making  observa- 
tions of  the  weather.  In  the  shifting  vane 
and  the  restless  clouds  there  is  the  attrac- 
tion of  perpetual  change,  elements  we  may 
not  control  nor  yet  fully  understand— an 
omnipresent  and  omnipotent  force.  Their 
wayward  moods  bring  plenty  or  pestilence, 
as  the  vane  chooses  to  veer,  or  the  tangles 
gather  in  the  cirri’ s hair.  All  animal  and 
vegetable  life  is  dependent  upon  their  inex- 


50 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


orable  decrees.  The  laws  of  the  weather 
may  not  be  altered.  We  may  not  increase 
the  rainfall  one  inch  or  lower  the  tempera- 
ture half  a degree.  The  most  we  can  do  is 
to  study  its  warnings,  and,  by  reading  the 
signs  of  the  earth  and  sky,  be  prepared  for 
what  changes  may  be  in  store. 

There  is  a relief  from  the  tyranny  of  hard 
fact  in  endeavoring  to  trace  the  meaning  of 
these  nimbus  clouds  or  the  prophecy  of  this 
moisture-laden  breeze.  What  will  the  next 
change  be;  of  what  complexion  will  be  the 
weather  to  come?  I foretell  it  frequently 
through  my  walls  of  glass  that  enable  me 
from  within  to  read  the  horoscope  of  the 
sky.  The  signs  exist,  if  we  may  but  com- 
prehend them.  They  publish  every  event 
and  indicate  every  change.  Unvarying 
laws  that  may  be  understood  by  the  intelli- 
gent observer  control  all  atmospheric  condi- 
tions, and  particularly  storms.  By  noting 
existing  conditions  the  corollary  is  to  be 
deduced.  Blasius’s  laws,  as  stated  in  his 
volume,  Storms,  are  comprehensive,  and 
whoever  will  take  the  pains  to  study  them 
(for  many  portions  of  the  volume  call  for 
hard  study)  may  learn  to  foretell  much 
about  the  weather,  at  least  so  far  as  relates 
to  larger  storms.  Many  immediate  changes 
are  easy  to  foretell — from  the  moon’s  warn- 
ing halo  and  the  prophesying  cry  of  the 
hair-bird,  to  the  toad’s  prescient  croak  from 


Signs  in  the  Sky. 


5 


the  tree.  From  observation  the  farmer  and 
mariner  generally  become  weather-wise. 
Out  in  the  open  air  continually,  they  learn 
to  interpret  the  signs,  their  vocations  being 
more  or  less  controlled  by  and  dependent 
upon  the  weather.  A habit  of  studying  the 
weather  brings  one  into  closer  relationship 
with  nature.  However  superficial  the 
knowledge,  one  must  know  something  of 
nature  in  order  to  be  a weather-prophet, 
that  is,  so  far  as  prophesying  from  numerous 
well-known  natural  signs  is  concerned. 

There  are  certain  indices : the  clouds  no 
bigger  than  a man’s  hand,  that  indicate 
what  is  coming  in  a weather  way  for  a 
short  time  ahead.  Many  of  the  old  signs 
are  reliable.  From  time  out  of  mind  a red 
sunset  has  been  viewed  as  a precursor  of 
fair  weather,  and  a red  sunrise  the  forerun- 
ner of  storm.  A bright-yellow  sky  at  sun- 
set uniformly  denotes  wind,  a coppery  or 
pale-yellow  sunset,  wet;  and  attentive  ob- 
servers do  not  need  the  testimony  of  Ad- 
miral Fitzroy  to  know  that  a dark,  gloomy, 
blue  sky  is  windy,  and  a light,  bright,  blue 
sky  is  fair.  A high  dawn  indicates  wind, 
a low  dawn  fine  weather.  A gray  sky  in 
the  morning  presages  fine  weather.  If 
cumulus  gathers  in  the  north  and  rises, 
rain  may  be  looked  for  before  night.  Fre- 
quently the  cumuli  clouds — argosies  serene- 
ly riding  at  anchor  above  the  southern  ho- 
4 


5 2 The  Story  of  my  House. 


rizon — flash  forth  warnings  that  are  never 
fulfilled;  the  lightning  of  heat,  and  not  of 
storm.  If  stripes  are  seen  to  rise  northward 
from  the  southern  sky,  a change  may  be  an- 
ticipated from  their  quarter.  Without  clouds 
there  can  be  no  storm. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  cloud-forma- 
tions, the  mackerel-sky,  is  well  known  to 
be  usually  indicative  of  a change.  Often- 
times on  the  otherwise  unclouded  blue  of 
the  heavens  delicate  volutes  or  scrolls  may 
be  observed,  like  cobwebs  spun  upon  the 
sky  ; these  frequently  portend  a decided 
change  within  two  days.  If  this  form  of 
cloud,  more  familiarly  known  as  mares’- 
tails,  curls  down  toward  sunset,  fair  weather 
may  be  looked  for;  if  up,  it  will  most  prob- 
ably rain  before  dawn.  Frequently  narrow 
bands  or  stripes  extend  from  east  to  west  or 
north  to  south  over  the  entire  aerial  arch, 
the  storm  invariably  coming  from  the  direc- 
tion pointed  out  by  the  clouds. 

Local  signs  go  to  show  that  in  winter  a 
dark-blue  cloud  over  the  lake  foretells  a 
thaw;  when  the  lower  portion,  however, 
is  dark  and  the  upper  portion  gray,  snow 
may  be  expected.  A halo  round  the  moon 
is  a sure  indication  of  rain,  snow,  or  wind, 
and  the  larger  the  circle  the  nearer  the 
storm.  When  the  stars  are  more  than 
usually  bright  and  numerous,  or  when  the 
hills  and  distant  objects  seem  unusually 


Signs  in  the  Sky. 


53 


sharp  and  near,  I am  certain  of  an  approach- 
ing storm.  “You  all  know  the  peculiar 
clearness  which  precedes  rain,”  observes 
Ruskin,  “when  the  distant  hills  are  look- 
ing nigh.  I take  it  on  trust  from  the  scien- 
tific people  that  there  is  then  a quantity, 
almost  to  saturation,  of  aqueous  vapor  in 
the  air,  but  it  is  aqueous  vapor  in  a state 
which  makes  the  air  more  transparent  than 
it  would  be  without  it.  What  state  of 
aqueous  molecule  is  that,  absolutely  unre- 
flective  of  light — perfectly  transmissive  of 
light,  and  showing  at  once  the  color  of  blue 
water  and  blue  air  on  the  distant  hills?” 
Distant  sounds  heard  with  unusual  dis- 
tinctness apprise  me  of  rain.  The  aurora 
borealis,  when  very  bright,  is  usually  fol- 
lowed by  a storm,  and  often  intense  cold. 
The  rainbow  after  drought  is  a rain  sign. 

Natural  signs,  other  than  the  handwrit- 
ing on  the  sky,  are  innumerable,  and,  again, 
the  old  sign-posts  point  out  the  way.  Heavy 
dews  indicate  fair  weather,  while  three  con- 
secutive white  frosts,  and  often  two,  invari- 
ably bring  rain  or  snow.  Before  a snow- 
storm the  weather  usually  moderates,  while 
there  is  always  an  interval  between  the  first 
drops  and  the  downpour.  If  it  rains  before 
seven  it  will  clear  before  eleven,  is  a wise 
saw.  Certain  stones,  which,  when  rain  is 
in  the  near  future,  become  damp  and  dark- 
looking, are  excellent  barometers.  We  have 


54 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


all  of  us  noticed  that  fire  frequently  burns 
brighter  and  throws  out  more  heat  just  be- 
fore a storm,  and  is  hotter  during  its  con- 
tinuance— an  easterly  storm,  however,  often 
being  the  exception. 

The  closing  of  the  blossoms  of  numer- 
ous flowers  during  the  day  tells  me  it  will 
rain;  my  flowers  also  give  out  a stronger 
odor  previous  to  rain.  The  trefoils  contract 
their  leaves  at  the  approach  of  a storm. 
The  convolvulus  and  the  pimpernel  also 
fold  their  petals  previous  to  rain,  the  latter 
flower  being  appropriately  named  the  poor 
man’s  weather-glass.  When  the  chick- 
weed’s  blossom  expands  fully,  no  rain  will 
occur  for  several  hours;  if  it  continue  open, 
no  rain  will  fall  during  the  day.  When  it 
half  conceals  its  flower  the  day  is  usually 
showery.  When  it  entirely  closes  its  white 
petals,  steady  rain  will  occur.  “ It  is  mani- 
fest,” observes  Bacon  in  Sylva  Sylvarum, 
“that  there  are  some  Flowers  that  have 
Respect  to  the  Sunne  in  two  kindes;  The 
one  by  Opening  and  Shutting;  And  the 
other  by  Bowing  and  Inclining  the  Head ; 
it  is  found  in  the  great  Flower  of  the  Sunne  ; 
in  Marigolds,  Wart-Wort , Mallow- Rowers; 
and  others.” 

Smoke  rising  straight  in  the  air  means 
fair  weather.  The  odor  of  the  Mephitis  is 
very  pronounced  before  rain,  owing  to  the 
heaviness  of  the  atmosphere,  which  pre- 


Signs  in  the  Sky. 


55 


vents  odors  from  rising.  Spiders  do  not 
spin  their  webs  out  of  doors  before  rain. 
Previous  to  rain  flies  sting  sharper,  bees  re- 
main in  their  hives,  or  fly  but  short  dis- 
tances, and  most  animals  and  birds  appear 
uneasy.  “ Sheep,”  the  Selborne  rector 
states,  “are  observed  to  be  very  intent  on 
grazing  against  stormy  wet  evenings.”  One 
of  the  most  reliable  weather-signs  in  Texas 
is  said  to  be  supplied  by  the  ant.  The  ants 
bring  their  eggs  up  out  of  their  nests,  ex- 
posing them  to  the  sun  to  be  hatched. 
When  they  are  observed  carrying  them  in 
again  hastily,  though  there  be  not  a cloud 
in  the  sky,  a storm  is  near  at  hand.  Swal- 
lows flying  low  near  the  ground  or  water 
is  a rain-sign  noted  in  the  Georgies,  the 
birds  following  the  flies  and  gnats  which 
delight  in  a warm  strata  of  air.  Aratus,  the 
Greek  poet,  in  the  Prognostica,  also  cites 
the  swallow’s  flight  low  over  the  water  as 
a rain-sign : 

Fast  skim  the  swallows  o’er  the  lucid  lake 

And  with  their  breasts  the  rippling  waters  break. 

Previous  to  rain  and  just  when  it  begins  to 
rain,  swallows  fly  swifter,  doubtless  to 
make  the  most  of  the  insects  while  oppor- 
tunity affords.  Wheeling  and  diving  high 
in  the  sky,  the  swallow  flies  to  tell  me  the 
day  will  be  fair.  Chickens,  it  may  be  no- 
ticed, when  steady  rain  sets  in  will  continue 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


56 


searching  for  food  after  the  rain  has  begun  ; 
if  only  a shower  they  will  seek  shelter  be- 
fore the  rain  begins.  Foxes  bark,  and 
wolves  howl  more  frequently  when  wet 
? weather  is  approaching.  Crows  clamor 
louder  before  a change.  Frogs,  geese, 
and  crows  were  looked  upon  as  weather- 
prophets  by  the  ancients,  the  crow  especially 
figuring  frequently  as  a foreboder  of  storm. 
According  to  Virgil,  if  they  croak  often,  and 
with  a hoarse  voice  it  is  a rain-sign  : 

Turn  cornix  rauca  pluviam  vocat  improba  voce. 

If  they  croak  only  three  or  four  times,  and 
with  a shrill  clear  voice  it  is  a fair  weather 
sign  : 

Tum  liquidas  corvi  presso  ter  guttere  voces 
Aut  quater  ingeminant. 

Lucretius  likewise  introduces  the  crow  as  a 
weather  prophet  : 

....  om’nous  crows  with  various  noise, 

Affright  the  farmers  ; and  fill  all  the  plain, 

Now  calling  for  rough  winds  and  now  for  rain.* 

The  crow’s  raucous  voice  also  figures  in 
Aratus’s  Prognostics  of  a Storm  : 

The  aged  crow  on  sable  pinions  borne, 

Upon  the  beetling  promontory  stands, 

And  tells  the  advancing  storm  to  trembling  lands  ; 

Or  dips  and  dives  within  the  river’s  tide, 

Or,  croaking  hoarse,  wheels  round  in  circles  dark  and 
wide,  f 


* Creeche’s  translation. 


f Milman’s  translation. 


Signs  in  the  Sky. 


57 


And  Chaucer,  while  following  the  majority 
of  the  poets  in  aspersing  the  crow,  still 
makes  him  serve  as  a barometer  : 

Ne  nevir  aftir  swete  noise  shall  ye  make, 

But  evir  crye  ayenst  tempest  and  rain.  . . . 

All  nature  reads  the  coming  signs.  The 
migratory  woodcock  will  desert  the  fall 
covers  in  advance  of  the  storm,  even  though 
the  weather  promise  fair.  Just  before  a 
storm,  like  its  echo  in  advance,  I have  heard 
the  Canadian  forest  resounding  on  every 
side  with  the  cry  of  the  great  horned  owl — 
oh-hoo,  oh-hoo ! oh-hoo,  oh-hoor-r-r-r ! 
Wild  fowl  are  conscious  of  the  change  from 
afar.  Even  the  domestic  goose  and  duck 
are  unusually  garrulous  previous  to  a storm, 
voicing  their  pleasure  at  the  prospect  of 
approaching  rain.  I recall  a case  in  point 
while  trout-fishing,  where  geese  proved 
excellent  weather-prophets.  The  day  in 
question,  September  14,  1875,  the  last  day 
of  the  open  season  in  Ontario,  like  the  three 
or  four  preceding  days,  was  warm,  hazy, 
and  delightful,  with  no  perceptible  omens 
to  denote  an  approaching  storm,  save  the 
graceful  mares’-tails  waving  from  the  sky. 
But  a large  flock  of  geese,  which  appeared 
to  dispute  with  the  trout  the  possession  of 
the  pond,  and  which  had  frequently  proved 
a source  of  annoyance  while  angling,  were 
more  than  usually  excited,  screaming  con- 


5» 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


tinually,  and  flying  to  and  from  the  pond 
with  loud  gaggling.  The  sun  descended 
behind  the  tamaracks  with  an  angry  frown, 
the  moon  became  obscured  by  ominous 
clouds,  the  temperature  fell  suddenly,  and  a 
severe  equinoctial  storm  set  in. 

Birds,  however,  can  not  be  implicitly 
relied  upon  as  weather-prophets,  espe- 
cially as  harbingers  of  spring.  Year  after 
year,  tempted  by  instinct  and  the  tempered 
air,  do  the  migratory  birds  take  early  flights 
to  the  northward.  Suddenly  on  some  geni- 
al morning,  the  vanguards  appear.  A blue- 
bird’s, or  song-sparrow’s  dulcet  warble  falls 
upon  the  ear,  and  we  welcome  the  return 
of  spring.  But  season  after  season  we  have 
to  record  the  disappearance  of  the  birds 
again,  and  the  recurrence  of  stormy  weath- 
er. Lured  by  the  soft  spring  sunshine,  and 
eager  to  revisit  their  northern  homes,  the 
birds,  like  human  migrants  to  the  south, 
frequently  return  too  soon.  Not  until  I 
hear  the  first  sweet  song  of  the  white- 
throated  sparrow  am  I convinced  that  spring 
has  come  to  stay. 

How  far  the  weather  is  influenced  by 
the  changes  of  the  moon  is  a disputed  ques- 
tion. M.  de  Parville,  a French  meteorolo- 
gist of  note,  has  recently  claimed  that  a 
long  series  of  observations  show  that  the 
moon  which  passes  every  month  from  one 
hemisphere  to  the  other,  influences  the 


Signs  in  the  Sky. 


59 


direction  of  the  atmospheric  currents  ; that 
the  distance  of  the  moon  from  the  equator, 
or  inclination  of  the  moon’s  path  to  the 
plane  of  the  equator  varies  every  year,  pass- 
ing from  a maximum  to  a minimum  limit, 
and  that  the  meteorological  character  of  a 
series  of  years  appears  to  be  mainly  depend- 
ent upon  the  change  of  inclination  when 
those  extreme  limits  have  been  touched  : 
the  rainy  years,  the  cold  winters,  and  hot 
summers  return  periodically  and  coincide 
with  certain  declinations  of  the  moon.  In 
proof  of  his  assertion,  he  presents  a table 
tracing  backward  this  connection  between 
the  rainy  years  and  the  moon’s  declination. 

In  the  European  Magazine,  vol.  60,  p. 
24,  a table  is  given  which  has  been  ascribed 
to  the  astronomer  Herschel.  It  is  con- 
structed upon  a philosophical  consideration 
of  the  attraction  of  the  sun  and  moon  in 
their  several  positions  respecting  the  earth, 
suggesting  to  the  observer  what  kind  of 
weather  will  most  probably  follow  the 
moon’s  entrance  into  any  of  her  quarters. 
Briefly  summarized,  the  nearer  the  time  of 
the  moon’s  entrance,  at  full  and  change  or 
quarters,  is  to  midnight  (that  is  within  two 
hours  before  and.  after  midnight),  the  more 
fair  the  weather  is  in  summer,  but  the  nearer 
to  noon,  the  less  fair.  Also,  the  moon's 
entrance,  at  full,  change,  and  quarters,  dur- 
ing six  of  the  afternoon  hours,  viz.  : from 


6o 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


four  to  ten,  may  be  followed  by  fair  weath- 
er ; but  this  is  mostly  dependent  on  the 
wind.  The  same  entrance  during  all  the 
hours  after  midnight,  except  the  two  first, 
is  unfavorable  to  fair  weather. 

It  may  be  of  interest  to  cite  Bacon’s 
rules  for  prognosticating  the  weather,  from 
the  appearances  of  the  moon  : 

1.  If  the  new  moon  does  not  appear  till 
the  fourth  day,  it  prognosticates  a troubled 
air  for  the  whole  month. 

2.  If  the  moon  either  at  her  first  appear- 
ance or  within  a few  days  after,  has  her 
lower  horn  obscured  and  dusky,  it  denotes 
foul  weather  before  the  full  ; but,  if  she  be 
discovered  about  the  middle,  storms  are  to 
be  expected  about  the  full  ; and,  if  her  upper 
horn  be  affected,  about  the  wane. 

3.  When  on  her  fourth  day  the  moon 
appears  pure  and  spotless,  her  horns  un- 
blunted and  neither  flat  nor  quite  erect,  but 
between  both,  it  promises  fair  weather  for 
the  greatest  part  of  the  month. 

4.  An  erect  moon  is  generally  threaten- 
ing and  unfavorable,  but  particularly  de- 
notes wind  ; though  if  she  appears  with 
short  and  blunted  horns,  rain  is  rather  to  be 
expected. 

The  influence  of  the  moon  on  the 
weather  was  one  of  the  cardinal  beliefs,  not 
only  of  the  ancients,  but  of  our  forefathers, 
and  the  old  gardeners  and  orchardists  be- 


Signs  in  the  Sky. 


61 


lieved  implicitly  in  its  effect  on  most  opera- 
tions connected  with  husbandry,  regulating 
these  operations  with  the  greatest  exacti- 
tude, according  to  the  various  phases  of  the 
planet.  Harvard,  in  his  treatise  on  the  art 
of  propagating  plants,  referring  to  the  prop- 
er time  for  grafting,  declares,  “the  grafts 
must  alwaies  be  gathered  in  the  old  of  the 
Moone.”  Lawson,  in  his  New  Orchard 
and  Garden,  advises  as  the  best  time  to  re- 
move sets,  “immediately  after  the  fall  of 
the  Leaf,  in  or  about  the  change  of  the 
Moon  and  the  best  time  for  “graffing” 
as  “in  the  last  part  of  February  or  March , 
or  beginning  with  April , when  the  Sun 
with  his  heat  begins  to  make  the  sap  stir 
more  rankly  about  the  change  of  the  Moon, 
before  you  see  any  great  apparancie  of  leaf 
or  flowers  ; but  only  knots  and  buds,  and 
before  they  be  proud,  though  it  be  sooner.” 

Very  frequent  references  to  the  moon’s 
influence  with  respect  to  forestry  and  its 
operations  occur  in  Evelyn’s  Sylva.  In 
felling  timber,  he  charges  the  forester  to 
“observe  the  Moons  increase”  (chap,  iii, 
13).  And  again,  “the  fittest  time  of  the 
Moon  for  the  Pruning  is  (as  of  Graffing ) 
when  the  sap  is  ready  to  stir  (not  proudly 
stirring)  and  so  to  cover  the  wound  ” (chap, 
xxix,  6.)  The  old  lunar  rules  for  felling 
trees  are  thus  given  by  Evelyn  (chap,  xxx, 
26)  : “Fell  in  the  decrease , or  four  days 


62 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


after  conjunction  of  the  two  great  Lumi- 
naries ; some  of  the  last  quarter  of  it  ; or  (as 
Pliny)  in  the  very  article  of  the  change,  if 
possible  ; which  hapning  (saith  he)  in  the 
last  day  of  the  Winter  Solstice,  that  Timber 
will  prove  immortal : At  least  should  it  be 
from  the  twentieth  to  the  thirtieth  day,  ac- 
cording to  Columella  : Cato  four  dayes 
after  the  Full,  as  far  better  for  the  growth  : 
But  all  viminious  Trees  silente  Lund  ; such 
as  Sallies,  Birch,  Poplar,  etc.  Vegetius 
for  ship  timber^  from  the  fifteenth  to  the 
twenty-fifth,  the  Moon  as  before  ; but  never 
during  the  Increase,  Trees  being  then  most 
abounding  with  moisture,  which  is  the 
only  source  of  putrefaction  : And  yet  ’tis 
affirm’d  upon  unquestionable  Experience, 
that  Timber  cut  at  any  season  of  the  year, 
in  the  Old  Moon,  or  last  Quarter , when 
the  Wind  blows  Westerly ; proves  as 
sound , and  good  as  at  any  other  period 
whatsoever  ; nay,  all  the  whole  Summer 
long,  as  in  any  Month  of  the  Year.” 

Few  of  our  large  storms  are  of  local  ori- 
gin ; they  are  hatched  for  the  most  part  on 
the  plains  east  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and 
thence  move  eastward,  deflecting  slightly 
to  the  north  during  winter.  In  Europe,  the 
meteorologists  assert,  storms  are  more 
nearly  round  than  in  America,  where  they 
are  of  a more  irregular  oval  form,  varying 
in  size  from  the  diameter  of  a few  miles  to 


Signs  in  the  Sky. 


those  that  surge  from  the  gulf  to  beyond 
the  lakes. 

But  Blasius  for  storms  ! the  supreme 
authority,  the  Aristotle  of  the  clouds  and 
air-currents.  When  all  our  ordinary  signs 
fail,  we  have  only  to  turn  to  the  Hanover 
professor  to  read  and  learn. 

Unquestionably,  nevertheless,  the  most 
infallible  of  weather  rules  is  that  there  is  no 
rule.  So  far  as  ordinary  signs  go,  there  is 
nothing  more  true  than  that  all  signs  may 
fail  during  a protracted  drought,  or  con- 
tinuous rainy  weather.  Vainly  then  the 
peacock  screams,  or  the  sun  emerges  from 
a dripping  sky.  At  best  the  weather  is  a 
hoiden,  and,  perhaps,  loves  a frown  better 
than  a dimple.  The  rain  may  come  and 
the  rain  may  go,  persistently  following  the 
course  of  a lake  or  river,  favoring  this  local- 
ity and  slighting  that;  deluging  one  county 
to  leave  the  adjoining  one  parched  with 
thirst.  For  it  is  true  of  the  weather  and 
other  things  besides;  it  never  smiles  but 
it  laughs,  it  never  rains  but  it  pours. 


IV. 

THE  IDEAL  HAVEN. 

When  my  ship  comes  home  I shall  have  a study  of  a 
very  superior  kind  built.  A part  of  the  scheme  will  be 
a garden  and  a greenhouse  which  shall  be  especially 
adapted  to  the  exigencies  of  authorcraft. — J.  Ashby- 
Sterry,  Cucumber  Chronicles. 


hile  silence  is  pre-eminently  gold- 
en in  the  study,  the  study,  nev- 
ertheless, should  be  more  than 
“a  chamber  deaf  to  noise.” 
Situated  away  from  disturbing 
household  sounds,  it  should  also  be  with- 
drawn from  ready  access  on  the  part  of  all 
intruders.  It  should  be  a “ den  ” in  the  lit- 
eral sense  of  the  word — a covert,  a haven. 
Not  that  it  should  necessarily  be  below 
ground,  but  the  way  leading  to  it  should  be 
difficult  to  find  ; and,  like  the  fox’s  den,  it 
should  be  provided  with  two  entrances  or  v 
means  of  escape,  the  more  readily  to  baffle 
pursuers. 

In  how  many  houses,  even  those  which 
are  supposed  to  have  been  most  carefully 
planned,  are  not  the  library  and  the  study 


The  Ideal  Haven. 


65 


placed  in  close  proximity  to  the  front  en- 
trance, where  anything  like  continuous  re- 
pose is  as  far  removed  as  the  constellation 
Orion,  and  where  the  volume  with  which 
one  endeavors  to  be  engaged  is  forever 
chafed  by  the  friction  of  passing  inmates  ! 
Apart  from  mere  noise,  the  discomfort  of 
a library  or  study  so  situated  is  always  great 
from  the  facility  it  offers  to  the  wiles  of 
innumerable  outside  forces.  It  is  necessa- 
rily unpleasant  to  have  certain  visitors  thrust 
unceremoniously  upon  one.  You  can  not 
tell  by  the  mere  ring  of  the  bell  whether  it 
is  A,  B,  or  C who  has  come  to  honor  you 
with  his  presence — to  bore  or  to  charm; 
and  without  at  every  announcement  mak- 
ing a sudden  dive  at  the  risk  of  being  seen 
or  heard,  you  are  liable  to  be  chambered  for 
an  hour  with  the  very  person  you  may  most 
desire  to  avoid.  Thoreau  often  waited  for 
the  Visitor  who  never  comes;  many  of  us 
must  wait  for  the  visitor  who  never  goes. 

Not  that  I would  limit  visitors  to  a cir- 
cumscribed few,  or  banish  welcome  ones  at 
an  early  hour.  I entertain  the  highest  re- 
gard for  the  maxim  of  Pope  respecting  the 
coming  and  the  parting  guest;  yet,  in  the 
very  nature  of  things,  there  are  always  some 
to  whom  one  would  fain  send  the  conven- 
tional message,  “not  at  home.”  It  was 
to  obviate  such  monstrous  misplacements 
as  a library  near  the  front  door  (a  library 


66 


The  Story  of  my  House . 


merely  in  name),  that  Na’ude,  years  since, 
in  his  Advis  pour  dresser  une  Bibliotheque, 
gave  this  excellent  advice:  “ Let  the  library 
be  placed  in  a portion  of  the  house  most  re- 
moved from  noise  and  disturbance,  not  only 
from  without,  but  also  from  family  and 
servants;  away  from  the  street,  the  kitchen, 
sitting-room,  and  similar  places  ; locating 
it,  if  possible,  between  some  spacious  court 
and  a fine  garden  where  it  may  have  abun- 
dant light,  pure  air,  and  extended  and  agree- 
able views.” 

In  the  case  of  all  houses  where  rooms 
are  thus  misplaced,  some  means  of  spiriting 
one’s  self  away  through  a side  or  rear  door 
are  absolutely  essential  to  even  a semblance 
of  comfort.  A study  amid  such  surround- 
ings, without  safe  and  instantaneous  means 
of  flight  from  unwelcome  callers  is  a gro- 
tesque misnomer.  Is  not  a man’s  house  his 
castle?  The  term  “growlery,”  often  ap- 
plied to  the  study,  undoubtedly  arose  from 
an  apartment  so  situated,  referring  not  to  a 
cage  where  the  master  of  the  house  may 
work  off  his  surly  moods,  as  some  ladies 
erroneously  suppose,  but  to  the  anathemas 
bestowed  by  its  harassed  inmate  upon  the 
architect  who  planned  a place  for  retirement 
where  retirement  is  only  possible  after  mid- 
night. All  these  can  the  more  readily  com- 
prehend the  force  of  a passage  in  Walden- — 
“the  mass  of  men  lead  lives  of  quiet  des- 


The  Ideal  Haven. 


67 


peration ; what  is  called  resignation  is  con- 
firmed desperation.”  A trap -door,  con- 
cealed an  Oriental  rug,  that  would  re- 
spond to  a certain  pressure  of  the  foot  known 
only  to  the  initiated,  might  be  worthy  of 
consideration  by  house-builders  in  this  con- 
nection. Or  some  kind  of  reflecting-glass 
might  be  devised  that  would  enable  coming 
events  of  an  unpleasant  nature  to  cast  their 
shadows  before. 

Even  though  one  meet  his  modest  ac- 
counts with  all  reasonable  promptitude, 
there  are  still  creditors  oblivious  to  the 
amenities  of  life,  who,  instead  of  forward- 
ing annual  or  semi  - annual  statements 
through  the  certain  channel  of  the  mails, 
send  their  “cards  of  compliment”  for  col- 
lection through  the  medium  of  middlemen 
or  runners,  who,  even  yet  more  callous  to 
the  finer  feelings  of  humanity,  and  intent 
solely  upon  pouching  their  guerdon,  invari- 
ably present  themselves  at  the  front  door  to 
force  a passage  within.  Fancy  an  intrusion 
of  this  kind  while  you  may  be  rereading 
The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  or  perusing  The 
Good-Natured  Man  ! Though  it  occur 
but  once  a year,  the  shock  must  still  re- 
main. At  one  time  or  another  this  form  of 
visitant  is  bound  to  appear  to  every  one; 
for  the  species  of  fiend  exists  in  common 
with  front-door  book-agents,  itinerant  vend- 
ers, census-takers,  expressmen,  telegraph- 
5 


68 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


messengers,  and  the  rest  of  the  customary 
mob  that  charges  upon  one’s  front  entrance 
wherever  and  whenever  it  is  the  most  ac- 
cessible means  of  invasion.  Even  the  par- 
cels’-delivery,  despite  reiterated  warnings, 
will  not  unfrequently  persist  in  demanding 
ingress  through  the  forbidden  portal.  In- 
deed, the  front  door  is  a constant  factor  of 
discord,  the  baiting-place  of  disquiet,  the 
arch  enemy  of  household  peace. 

Many  of  the  vexations  that  are  ever  striv- 
ing to  wedge  their  way  through  the  vesti- 
bule may  be  avoided  by  intelligent,  well- 
drilled  servants  who  are  capable  of  reading 
human  nature,  and  at  a glance  can  distin- 
guish the  false  from  the  true.  A thoroughly 
competent  house-maid  should  wear  her  cap 
internally  as  well  as  externally,  and,  like  a 
thrasher’s  sieve,  be  able  to  winnow  the 
chaff  from  the  wheat.  But  such  discrimi- 
nating Cerberi  are  as  rare  as  they  are  desir- 
able, and  the  melancholy  fact  exists  that  the 
servant  is  invariably  ready  to  leave  so  soon 
as  she  or  he  has  become  really  valuable  or 
thoroughly  accustomed  to  your  ways. 

Lamb,  in  one  of  his  essays  on  Popular 
Fallacies,  has  said  some  excellent  things 
about  visitors.  If  certain  visitors  would 
only  read  these  things,  and,  reading,  com- 
prehend! And  if  the  visitor  who  never 
knows  when  to  leave,  as  distinguished  from 
those  who,  staying  late,  always  leave  too 


The  Ideal  Haven. 


soon,  would  only  peruse  and  ponder!  In 
his  category  of  intruders  Lamb  emphasizes 
“purposeless  visitants  and  droppers-in,” 
and  he  sometimes  wonders  from  what  sky 
they  fall.  Whittier’s  Demon  of  the  Study, 
too,  would  indicate  that  the  type  still  flour- 
ishes in  New  as  well  as  Old  England.  Un- 
der the  inspiration  of  an  architect  who  is  yet 
to  be  born,  the  house  of  the  millennium  will 
be  able  to  avoid  all  unpleasant  intrusions 
upon  a privacy  that  is  its  inherent  right,  but 
which,  alas ! exists  not  in  the  home  of  the 
present. 

It  is  apparent  at  once  that  the  ideal  ha- 
ven can  not  hide  itself  amid  the  turmoil  of 
the  first  floor.  To  fulfill  its  mission  it  must 
betake  itself  to  surroundings  more  retired, 
and  soar  to  a serener  sphere.  The  true 
place  for  the  study,  therefore,  is  on  an  upper 
floor,  and  in  the  ideal  house  I would  have  it 
a spacious  oriel  approached  by  a hidden 
staircase. 

Hawthorne’s  idea  was  an  excellent  one 
—the  study  in  the  tower  or  upper  story  of 
his  residence  at  Concord,  which  he  ap- 
proached by  a ladder  and  trap-door,  pull- 
ing the  ladder  up  after  him,  and  placing  a 
weight  over  the  door  for  additional  security. 
Here  he  could  look  out  upon  his  favorite 
walk  amid  the  evergreens,  almost  touch  the 
crowns  of  the  leafy  elms,  and  bathe  in  the 
sunshine  that  illumined  the  fertile  plain 


70 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


across  the  roadway.  His  first  residence  at 
Concord — the  Old  Manse — was  sufficiently 
remote  to  dispense  with  a trap-door,  un- 
less, indeed,  this  was  an  after-consideration 
owing  to  family  reasons.  At  an  opposite 
extremity  of  the  village,  far  removed  from 
Emerson  and  even  the  fleet  feet  of  Thoreau, 
situated  at  a distance  from  the  highway, 
the  house  itself  of  a gray  neutral  tone  to 
baffle  observation,  and  half  concealed  amid 
the  shade  of  the  distant  suburbs,  he  was 
here  free  from  all  external  annoyances. 
Here  in  the  retired  three-windowed  study 
in  the  rear  of  the  house,  which  overlooked 
the  romantic  Concord  River  below,  he 
could  set  about  his  chosen  task  with  no 
dread  of  interruption  from  the  outside 
world. 

Montaigne’s  was  a model  study,  a true 
sanctum.  Without  the  quiet  and  reclusion 
it  afforded,  the  pervading  charm  of  the  Es- 
says would  never  have  been  ours.  Instead 
of  sauntering  and  loitering  along  with  the 
easy  abandon  they  do,  they  would  have 
hurried  and  galloped  by  at  breakneck  speed, 
striding  the  noisy  highway  rather  than  pa- 
cing the  shady  lane.  The  placid,  thinking, 
receptive  mind  of  Montaigne  was  obviously 
the  direct  outcome  of  the  calm  and  tran- 
quillity exhaled  by  the  inaccessible  round 
Tower  of  Perigord. 

The  enchanting  landscape,  too,  that 


The  Ideal  Haven. 


V 


smiled  through  the  spacious  windows  was, 
no  doubt,  a constant  inspiration,  serving  to 
rest  the  eye  and  mind  when  they  were 
wearied  by  the  tyranny  of  print,  or  fatigued 
by  protracted  writing.  There  would  doubt- 
less be  more  Montaignes  were  it  possible  to 
reproduce  the  life  and  surroundings  amid 
which  the  Essays  were  inspired.  Genius 
is  capable  of  much  ; but,  to  be  at  its  best, 
even  genius  must  be  in  the  mood,  and  moods 
are  largely  the  result  of  surroundings.  “No 
doubt,”  observes  Lord  Lytton,  “the  cradle 
and  nursery  of  definite  thought  is  in  the 
hazy  limbo  of  Reverie.  There  ideas  float 
before  us,  rapid,  magical,  vague,  half 
formed  ; apparitions  of  the  thoughts  that 
are  to  be  born  later  into  the  light,  and  run 
their  course  in  the  world  of  man.” 

“ Like  the  rain  of  night,”  remarks  Hen- 
ri Amiel  in  the  Journal  Intime,  “reverie  re- 
stores color  and  force  to  thoughts  which 
have  been  blanched  and  wearied  by  the 
heat  of  the  day.” 

The  true  flavor  of  a fine  vintage  may 
not  be  savored  if  the  wine  be  roiled,  or 
served  at  an  improper  temperature  ; the 
fine  effluence  that  should  emanate  from  the 
study — the  framing  of  one’s  mood  and  the 
molding  of  one’s  thoughts,  is  only  to  be 
obtained  in  its  perfect  measure  when  the 
mind  is  freed  from  all  disturbing  influences. 

Let  us  mount  the  classic  staircase  with 


72 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


Montaigne,  and  view  the  apartment  so 
minutely  described  in  the  third  chapter  of 
the  Third  Book.  The  well-filled  book- 
cases, the  sunlight,  the  seclusion,  the  invit- 
ing prospect,  the  fireplace,  and  the  immu- 
nity from  noise,  all  are  there : 

“At  home  I betake  me  somewhat 
the  oftener  to  my  library,  whence  all  at 
once  I command  and  survey  all  my  house- 
hold ; it  is  seated  in  the  chiefe  entrie  of  my 
house,  thence  I behold  under  me  my  gar- 
den, my  base  court,  my  yard,  and  looke 
even  into  most  roomes  of  my  house.  There 
without  order,  without  method,  and  by 
peece-meales  I turn  over  and  ransacke, 
now  one  booke  and  now  another.  Some- 
times I muse  and  rave  ; and  walking  up 
and  downe  I endight  and  enregister  these 
my  humours,  these  my  conceits.  It  is 
placed  on  the  third  storie  of  a tower.  The 
lowermost  is  my  Chapell  ; the  second  a 
chamber  with  other  lodgings,  where  I often 
lie  because  I would  be  alone.  Above  it  is  a 
great  wardrobe.  It  was  in  times  past  the 
most  unprofitable  place  of  all  my  house. 
There  I past  the  greatest  part  of  my  lives 
dayes,  and  weare  out  most  houres  of  the 
day.  I am  never  there  a nights  : Next 
unto  it  is  a handsome  neat  cabinet,  able 
and  large  enough  to  receive  fire  in  winter, 
and  very  pleasantly  windowen.  And  if  I 
feared  not  care,  more  than  cost  ; (care 


The  Ideal  Haven. 


13 


which  drives  and  diverts  me  from  all  busi- 
nesse)  I might  easily  joyne  a convenient 
gallerie  of  a hundred  paces  long,  and  twelve 
broad,  on  each  side  of  it,  and  upon  one 
floore  ; having  already  for  some  other  pur- 
pose, found  all  the  walles  raised  unto  a 
convenient  height.  Each  retired  place  re- 
quired! a walke.  My  thoughts  are  prone 
to  sleepe,  if  I sit  long.  My  minde  goes  not 
alone  as  if  ledges  did  moove  it.  Those 
that  studie  without  bookes,  are  all  in  the 
same  case.  The  forme  of  it  is  round,  and 
hath  no  flat  side,  but  what  serveth  for  my 
table  and  my  chaire  : In  which  bending  or 
circling  manner,  at  one  looke  it  offreth  me 
the  full  sight  of  all  my  books,  set  round 
about  upon  shelves  or  desks,  five  rancks  one 
upon  another.  It  hath  three  bay-windowes, 
of  a farre-extending,  rich  and  unresisted 
prospect,  and  is  in  diameter  sixteen  paces 
wide.  In  winter  I am  less  continually 
there  : for  my  house  (as  the  name  of  it  im- 
ported!) is  pearched  upon  an  overpearing 
hillocke  ; and  hath  no  part  more  subject  to 
all  wethers  than  this  : which  pleaseth  me 
the  more,  both  because  the  accesse  unto  it 
is  somewhat  troublesome  and  remote,  and 
for  the  benefit  of  the  exercise  which  is  to  be 
respected  ; and  that  I may  the  better  seclude 
myselfe  from  companie,  and  keepe  incroach- 
ers  from  me  : There  is  my  seat,  that  is  my 
throne.  I endeavour  to  make  my  rule 


74 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


therein  absolute,  and  to  sequester  that  only 
corner  from  the  communitie  of  wife,  of  chil- 
dren, and  of  acquaintance.  Else-where 
I have  but  a verbail  authoritie,  of  confused 
essence.  Miserable  in  my  minde  is  he, 
who  in  his  owne  home,  hath  no  where 
to  be  to  himselfe  ; where  hee  may  par- 
ticularly court,  and  at  his  pleasure  hide  or 
with-draw  himself.  Ambition  paieth  her 
followers  well,  to  keepe  them  still  in  open 
view,  as  a statue  in  some  conspicuous 
place.”  * 

Aside  from  the  quiet,  sequestration,  and 
conveniences  of  the  philosopher’s  study,  it 
will  be  observed  that  among  its  many  de- 
sirable features  was  that  of  its  being  “ very 
pleasantly  windowen  ” ( tres-plaisamment 
perce),  the  windows  commanding  a “farre- 
extending,  rich,  and  unresisted  prospect” 
(trois  veues  de  riche  et  libre  prospect). 
Assuredly  the  sunshine  and  light  that 
warmed  and  brightened  the  apartment,  and 
the  unlimited  view  of  hill  and  plain,  were  a 
stimulus  to  the  writer. 

Fortunate  is  he  who  has  a pleasing  pros- 
pect to  look  in  upon  him — it  invigorates 
and  cheers  like  a cordial.  Whatever  the 
time  of  year,  the  distant  hills,  visible  through 
my  windows,  are  a source  of  companion- 
ship and  charm.  So  constantly  are  they 


* Florio’s  translation. 


The  Ideal  Haven. 


75 


before  me,  I have  begun  to  consider  them 
as  my  own,  a remote  part  of  the  garden  and 
the  grounds  to  which  they  form  the  frame. 

I love  to  watch  their  changing  expression 
and  note  their  play  of  light  and  shade. 
Meseems  they  almost  resemble  a human 
countenance  in  the  varying  sentiments  they 
convey.  Content  and  malcontent  are  as 
plainly  expressed  by  their  mobile  curves  as 
they  are  by  the  lines  of  the  human  face. 
Like  the  rest  of  us,  in  sunshine  they  smile, 
in  storm  they  frown.  They  are  warm,  or 
cool,  as  the  mood  takes  them  ; as  they  re- 
flect or  absorb  the  sky  and  atmosphere. 
For  days  they  rest  in  absolute  calm  ; again 
they  recede,  and,  again,  they  advance. 
Mirroring  every  change  of  the  day  and  of 
the  passing  seasons,  they  are  a dial  that 
tells  the  hour,  the  time  of  year  to  me.  The 
sun  salutes  one  side  of  their  profile  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning  ; his  parting  rays 
illumine  the  other  side  the  last  thing  in  the 
evening.  They  hasten  the  dawn,  and  pro- 
long the  twilight.  The  full  moon  rising 
from  the  far  horizon  behind  them,  silvers 
their  wooded  slopes  ere  it  gilds  the  topmost 
gables  of  my  house.  They  catch  the  first 
drops  of  the  summer  shower,  and  receive 
the  first  flakes  of  the  November  snow. 
The  loveliest  blues  and  purples  seek  them, 
drawing  a semi-transparent  veil  over  them. 
On  hot  summer  noontides  the  cloud- 


?6 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


flocks  repose  upon  them,  and  the  orange 
afterglow  lingers  long  upon  their  tran- 
quil heights.  In  spring  the  earliest  vio- 
lets carpet  their  sheltered  places  ; in  au- 
tumn they  yield  me  the  last  blue  gentian 
bloom.  I see  the  wind  lifting  their  green 
skirts,  and  fancy  I hear  his  voice  murmur- 
ing through  their  umbrageous  depths.  My 
hills  ever  catch  and  focus  color,  and  toy  and 
play  with  wind  and  sun.  Whether  shim- 
mering in  midsummer  glare,  or  standing 
out  against  the  wintry  sky,  or  slumbering 
in  the  haze  of  the  dreamy  autumnal  day, 
they  are  my  finest  landscape  paintings. 
When  the  snow  has  spread  its  shroud  over 
the  silent  fields  they  still  speak  to  me  in 
color — gray,  bronze,  and  purple — by  turns 
during  the  day  ; a kaleidoscope  of  tones 
when  the  sun  sinks  behind  their  serried 
ranks  of  trees. 

Seeing  them  thus  year  after  year  they 
have  come  to  possess  a personality  ; and 
when  a rarefied  atmosphere  brings  them 
unusually  near,  I find  myself  casting  an 
imaginary  lasso  at  them  to  bring  them  still 
closer  to  me  that  I may  stroke  their  lovely 
contours.  So  familiar  have  I become  with 
them,  I have  only  to  look  out  of  my  win- 
dows, and  I am  treading  their  luminous 
heights,  and  am  fanned  by  the  breeze  that 
perpetually  blows  upon  their  peaceful 
crests. 


The  Ideal  Haven. 


77 


With  the  wind  from  the  southeast,  I hear 
the  roar  of  the  railroad  trains,  panting  and 
steaming,  coming  and  going  along  their 
slopes,  leaving  a trail  of  smoke  to  mark  the 
passage  of  their  flight.  The  ceaseless  tide 
of  travel  ever  hurries  on.  How  many  of 
those  seated  in  the  luxurious  coaches  note 
the  beauty  of  my  hills  ? Cloud-shadows 
chase  each  other,  and  hawks  wheel  over 
their  summits,  while  the  train  speeds  on, 
intent  upon  overtaking  other  hills  and  its 
remote  destination  : the  beauty  of  my  hills 
remains  for  me. 

A knock  at  my  study-door  interrupts 
my  musings,  and  my  hills  abruptly  recede. 
Not  that  my  friend  Sherlock  drives  them 
away  ; he  is  so  versatile  and  colorful  him- 
self that  the  charm  of  his  presence  and  con- 
versation takes  the  place  of  my  hills.  I 
never  learned  until  to-day  why  he  has  re- 
mained a bachelor.  It  was  only  when  con- 
versing about  the  ideal  home  that  the  true 
reason  occurred  to  me — he  has  failed,  not  in 
discovering  the  ideal  woman,  but  the  ideal 
architect  to  carry  out  his  admirable  concep- 
tions of  the  perfect  house  ; and  rather  than 
fall  below  his  artistic  standard  he  passively 
submits  to  fate,  and  awaits  the  architect 
who  is  to  be. 

“You  seem  to  overlook  the  probability 
of  my  being  referred  to  a committee  inqui- 
rendo  lanatico,  should  my  views  ever  be 


78 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


carried  out  ; and  it  seems  dangerous  to 
commit  them  to  print,”  was  my  friend’s 
rejoinder  to  a request  that  he  present  his 
views  in  detail. 

“ But  the  simple  story  of  my  house  will 
at  most  be  read  by  a few,”  I replied  ; “ and 
these  few  will  charitably  give  us  credit  for 
good  intentions  ; moreover  the  critics  are 
not  nearly  as  black  as  they  are  painted.” 

“ My  ideas,”  continued  my  friend,  “ fly 
so  rudely  in  the  face  of  all  convention  that 
people  would  consider  the  order  of  Nature 
reversed.  ‘ A kitchen  in  the  front  yard  ! ’ 
I hear  them  say,  ‘ Away  with  him  ! ’ 

“ Nevertheless,  had  I the  courage  of  my 
convictions,  together  with  ten  times  as 
much  money  as  I shall  ever  possess,  I 
would  build  my  house  all  front,  and  no 
rear  ! 

“A  capacious  vestibule,  say  20X20 
feet,  should  be,  not  the  entrance  exactly, 
but  a means  of  exclusion  for  unwelcome 
visitors.  A door  on  one  side  should  open 
to  my  lady’s  reception-room  where  she 
should  receive  all  formal  and  business  calls  ; 
in  short,  every  one  whom  she  took  no  pleas- 
ure in  seeing  at  all. 

“This  reception-room  should  be  con- 
nected with  the  domestic  end  of  the  house  ; 
the  store-rooms,  servants’  hall,  kitchen, 
kitchen-pantries,  and,  back  of  these,  the 
dining-  and  breakfast-rooms. 


The  Ideal  Haven. 


79 


“ On  the  opposite  side  of  the  vestibule 
should  be  a door,  similarly  accommodating 
all  unwelcome  guests  of  the  master,  being 
the  entrance  to  the  office,  and  connected  by 
a heavy  portiere  and  door  with  the  den 
and  library.  From  these  masculine  apart- 
ments a staircase,  concealed  in  the  wall, 
should  enable  the  good  man  of  the  house  to 
disappear  to  his  bath-  and  dressing-room  ; 
and  there  should  also  be  an  outer  side-door 
from  the  den,  through  which  could  be 
‘ fired  ’ (and  admitted  also)  such  tardy  and 
bibulous  friends  as  might  meet  the  disap- 
proval of  madame. 

“ The  back  of  the  vestibule  should  open 
and  expand  into  the  hall — a great  living- 
room  connecting  the  library  at  one  end 
with  the  dining-room  at  the  other,  and  out 
of  which  should  open  such  little  parlors  and 
snuggeries  as  inventive  genius  might  sug- 
gest. 

“ Into  this  hall,  the  real  house,  only 
those  one  wished  to  see  should  be  admitted. 
Here  the  great  staircase  should  rest  the  eye, 
and  the  great  hearth  should  blaze.  On  oc- 
casions of  festivity  the  guests,  in  their 
wraps,  should  ascend  by  a modest  staircase 
in  the  vestibule  to  their  disrobing  rooms, 
and  thence  descend  by  the  grand  staircase. 

“The  kitchen  being  at  one  end  of  the 
front  part  of  the  house,  and  so  conveniently 
accessible  to  the  butcher,  baker,  and  can- 


8o 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


dlestick-maker,  would  leave  all  the  space 
behind  the  house  for  piazzas,  terraces,  and 
gardens,  with  such  fountains,  statuary,  and 
conservatories  as  might  be  within  reach  of 
the  goodman’s  purse;  and  all  where  the  re- 
porter and  unwelcome  caller  could  not  in- 
trude; for  they  would  be  secluded  alike 
from  the  general  public  and  the  ordinary 
domestic  offices.  The  principal  apartments 
of  all  Japanese  houses,  I may  observe,  are 
at  the  back  of  the  house,  looking  out  upon 
the  garden  with  its  lilies,  irises,  paeonias, 
azaleas,  its  foliage-plants  and  flowering 
shrubs. 

“Thus  you  perceive  my  ideal  house 
requires  four  staircases:  the  great  one  in 
the  great  hall,  the  modest  one  in  the  vesti- 
bule, the  secret  one  (to  escape  creditors), 
and  the  one  for  the  servants. 

“ When  I consider  that  this  is  only  two 
more  than  all  civilized  houses  have,  I am 
surprised  at  the  moderation  and  restraint  of 
the  average  house-builder.  But  pray  re- 
member I am  anxious  to  avoid  that  com- 
mittee of  lunacy ; and  I have  not  yet  begun 
to  build.” 

Personally,  I entertain  the  highest  regard 
for  my  versatile  friend’s  ideal.  Were  I to 
suggest  any  change  in  the  main  points,  so 
admirably  conceived,  it  would  be  to  have 
the  study  removed  to  a still  serener  sphere, 
as  has  already  been  suggested.  Even  with 


The  Ideal  Haven. 


81 


my  friend’s  excellent  barricade,  still,  on 
some  occasion  when  least  expected — per- 
chance a most  momentous  one,  just  as  a 
long-lost  conceit  had  winged  its  return — the 
dreaded  intruder  might  force  an  entrance, 
and  put  the  thought  to  instantaneous  and 
irremeable  flight. 

The  size  of  the  study,  methinks,  should 
be  small  rather  than  large ; yet  ample  enough 
to  harbor  the  cheering  grate-fire,  the  easy- 
chairs,  the  center-table,  the  writing-desk, 
the  well-filled  book-cases,  and  the  artistic 
glass  cabinet  or  cabinets,  for  such  precious 
works  as  should  be  kept  under  lock  and 
key  and  never  loaned,  or  even  touched  by 
sacrilegious  hands. 

Let  these  gems  be  worthily  set  as  be- 
comes their  quality  and  rarity,  so  they  may 
minister  to  the  delight  of  the  eye  and  the 
pleasure  of  the  touch  as  they  contribute  to 
the  delectation  of  the  mind.  “Sashes  of 
gold  for  old  saints,  golden  bindings  for  old 
writings,”  Nodier  expresses  it;  and  Charles 
Asselineau  affectionately  exclaims:  “My 
Books,  I love  them ! I have  sought  them, 
gathered  them,  searched  for  them;  I have 
had  them  habited  to  the  best  of  my  ability 
by  the  best  tailors  of  books.”  My  glass 
cabinet  is  my  casket,  my  jewel-case;  and 
in  the  many-colored  morocco  of  the  bind- 
ings that  reflect  the  precious  riches  con- 
tained within  them,  I see  all  manner  of  jew- 


82 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


els  flash  and  glow.  In  these,  and  in  some 
of  the  superb  marblings  employed  in  the 
finer  French  bindings — and  here  the  exqui- 
site beauty  of  the  perfect  half-morocco  bind- 
ing is  apparent — I derive  a satisfaction  akin 
to  that  I receive  from  the  contemplation  of 
any  fine  art  object.  The  airy  conceits  and 
felicities  of  phrase  of  a favorite  author  be- 
come yet  more  entrancing  when  held  by 
these  colored  butterfly-wings  and  variega- 
ted plumes  dreamed  out  by  the  artist,  and 
stamped  in  permanent  form  by  the  skill  of 
the  binder. 

Thought  is  inclined  to  wander  amid  the 
freedom  of  a large  room.  But  though  the 
study  should  not  be  a vast  apartment,  it 
should  be  sufficiently  spacious  for  comfort 
and  to  avoid  overcrowding.  Sufficiently 
large  it  should  also  be  and  the  ceiling  suffi- 
ciently high  to  insure  a pure  atmosphere. 
On  account  of  ventilation,  a fire-place  is  of 
great  advantage  in  the  room  where  one  is 
engaged  in  sedentary  pursuits.  It  is  the 
next  thing  to  the  walk  and  the  elixir  of  the 
open  air.  De  Quincey  worked  in  a room 
seventeen  by  twelve,  and  not  more  than 
seve.n  and  a half  feet  high.  The  low  ceil- 
ings must  have  oppressed  him;  and  the 
vitiated  air  and  sense  of  suffocation,  it  is 
not  unlikely,  led  him  to  yield  to  the  danger- 
ous stimulus  that  inspired  the  Confessions. 

Most  wisely  has  Leigh  Hunt  discoursed 


The  Ideal  Haven. 


8? 


upon  the  study  and  its  surroundings  in  that 
ever-pleasing  essay,  My  Books.  “ I do  not 
like  this  fine  large  study.  I like  elegance. 

I like  room  to  breathe  in,  and  even  walk 
about,  when  I want  to  breathe  and  walk 
about.  I like  a great  library  next  my  study ; 
but  for  the  study  itself  give  me  a small, 
snug  place,  almost  entirely  walled  with 
books.  There  should  be  only  one  window 
in  it  looking  on  trees.  ...  I dislike  a grand 
library  to  study  in.  I mean  an  immense 
apartment  with  books  all  in  museum  order, 
especially  wire-safed.  I say  nothing  against 
the  museum  itself,  or  public  libraries.  . . . 
A grand  private  library,  which  the  master 
of  the  house  also  makes  his  study,  never 
looks  to  me  like  a real  place  of  books,  much 
less  of  authorship.  I can  not  take  kindly  to 
it.  It  is  certainly  not  out  of  envy ; for  three 
parts  of  the  books  are  generally  trash,  and  I 
can  seldom  think  of  the  rest  and  the  pro- 
prietor together.” 

To  be  attractive  and  cozy,  the  study 
need  not  be  extravagantly  furnished.  As 
in  other  apartments  of  the  house,  light  is 
one  of  its  first  requisites ; with  color,  ease, 
quiet,  and,  if  possible,  a pleasant  prospect. 
In  the  study,  above  all,  no  discordant  ele- 
ments should  intrude.  The  general  tone 
of  the  walls,  decorations,  and  furnishings, 
while  rich,  should  yet  be  subdued  and  rest- 
ful. A glaring  placque,  a staring  figure  in 
6 


84 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


the  wall  or  carpet  pattern,  or  any  subject 
unpleasing  in  its  nature  or  sentiment, 
whether  in  paintings,  pictures,  or  orna- 
ments, has  no  place  in  an  apartment 
which,  by  its  very  atmosphere,  should  con- 
duce to  reverie  and  a contemplative  frame 
of  mind.  Let  dreamful  landscapes,  rather 
than  figures  in  action,  adorn  and  comple- 
ment the  rich  slate  or  sage  of  its  walls  and 
hangings  ; and  I picture  my  ideal  study, 
when  my  second  ship  comes  in,  hung  round 
about  solely  with  Daubigny’s  tender  twi- 
lights and  peaceful  river-reaches  on  his  calm 
and  slowly  gliding  Oise. 

For  the  closer  concentration  of  thought, 
the  working-chair  would  be  placed  in  the 
most  attractive  corner  of  the  apartment, 
back  of  the  spacious  writing-desk,  with  its 
amplitude  of  drawers  and  pigeon  - holes  ; 
its  topmost  shelf  and  other  convenient 
places  so  arranged  with  pictures  and  por- 
traits of  favorite  authors  and  dear  or  absent 
friends  as  to  create  and  constantly  diffuse 
an  atmosphere  of  congenial  companionship. 

A carved  book-rest  should  hold  the  dic- 
tionary in  place  close  to  the  working-chair, 
and  a revolving  case  within  arm’s  reach 
should  bring  to  it  desired  works  of  refer- 
ence and  such  especially  treasured  volumes 
from  which  ideas  may  be  collected  — an- 
other name  for  inspiration.  I would  men- 
tion some  of  these — each  worthy  of  crushed 


The  Ideal  Haven. 


85 


levant  covers,  the  handicraft  of  a Padeloup 
or  Payne — but  for  the  fact  that  every  one 
should  choose  such  inspirations  for  himself. 
One  may  not  be  guided  by  another’s  choice 
in  a face  or  book  that  charms. 

Once  during  the  day,  but  always  unper- 
ceived, save  for  an  added  freshness  pervad- 
ing the  apartment,  my  study  should  respond 
to  the  touch  of  gentle  fingers.  Then,  as  I 
mount  the  secret  staircase  when  I would 
be  alone — a lingering  aroma  of  violets  and 
the  vanishing  rustle  of  a silken  robe. 


V. 

WHEN  LEAVES  GROW  SERE. 


For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days, 

Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 

Sonnet  cvi. 

Not  all  the  joy,  and  not  all  the  glory, 

Must  fade  as  leaves  when  the  woods  wax  hoary. 

Swinburne. 

here  is  a sigh  in  the  passing 
breeze  as  the  autumn  days  steal 
on — a sigh  for  the  summer  fled. 
I hear  the  change,  the  admoni- 
tory whisper  of  the  leaves,  al- 
most ere  the  transition  becomes  perceptible, 
for  Nature  as  yet  has  scarcely  altered  her 
outward  garb. 

Yet  daily  the  shadows  lengthen,  the  haze 
deepens,  mellower  grow  the  evening  skies, 
until,  no  longer  vacillating  between  summer 
and  autumn,  the  first  frost  smites  the  low- 
lands, and  the  division  line  of  the  seasons  is 
visibly  proclaimed. 

“We  hope  in  the  spring,  only  to  regret 
in  the  fall.”  But  shall  I regret  the  vanished 


When  Leaves  Grow  Sere.  87 


summer?  Will  not  yonder  hillside  glow 
as  all  the  summer  meadows  have  never 
glowed?  these  yellowing  woods  outshine 
the  sunshine  of  spring  ? Suddenly,  through 
my  windows,  I note  where  the  first  fires 
have  begun  to  burn.  I watch  the  flames 
creep  stealthily  along  the  hills,  smoldering, 
perchance,  in  a distant  hollow,  anon  riding 
the  higher  crests,  illuming  sumac-senti- 
neled ravines,  invading  the  brier  patches, 
and  lighting  sproutland  and  swamp  with 
living  fire.  High  on  the  uplands  the  splen- 
dor hangs,  low  in  the  valleys  the  glory  falls. 
Steeped  and  flooded  with  its  color,  the  land- 
scape gleams  like  an  opal  beneath  the  au- 
tumn sun.  What  poet,  what  prose  painter, 
what  cunning  artificer  of  phrase  can  depict 
the  tidal  wave  of  beauty  of  the  latter  year  ? 

Shall  I regret  the  summer  with  the  Oc- 
tober carnival  at  hand,  when  the  wood- 
cock whistles  from  the  alder  thicket  and 
the  grouse  bursts  through  the  painted  cov- 
ert ? It  is  for  this  the  sportsman  has  longed 
and  waited  during  the  lingering  months  of 
summer.  Stanchly  as  he  is  drawn  upon 
the  covey,  I am  sure  The  Spanish  Pointer, 
in  the  old  print  above  the  writing-desk,  feels 
the  advent  of  the  season,  and  thinks,  with 
the  latter-day  philosopher,  that  “the  preach- 
er who  declared  that  all  is  vanity,  never 
looked  at  a fall  woodcock  over  the  rib  of  a 
good  gun.” 


88 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


Always  on  his  point  on  the  knoll,  the 
pointer’s  riveted  attitude  now  has  an  added 
meaning.  His  eye  still  fixed  upon  the 
quarry,  he  nevertheless  moves  unceasingly 
in  his  frame.  There  is  no  deception,  no 
optical  illusion;  he  moves — not  forward  or 
backward,  but  with  an  oscillating,  sideward 
motion,  as  if  the  constant  strain  on  his 
powerful  tendons  had  caused  them  to  relax. 
Rigid  as  a statue  has  he  stood  throughout 
the  summer,  the  blue  blood  of  generations 
of  pointers  holding  him  unflinchingly  upon 
the  game.  Perhaps  now  the  scent  has 
grown  cold.  Or  has  he  wearied  of  waiting 
for  the  volley  of  the  barrels,  and,  looking 
up  for  a moment  at  the  crimsoning  copse, 
bethought  him  that  a fresh  season  has 
dawned,  and  there  are  fresh  coveys  to 
spring?  The  grim  lion  by  Barye,  in  the 
etching  that  hangs  above  him,  remains  mo- 
tionless. Though  you  would  dread  to  meet 
the  beast  of  prey  on  the  desert  where  he  is 
stalking,  he  shows  no  signs  of  animation 
on  the  wall  whence  he  looks  down  upon 
you.  Only  the  old  pointer  moves  unceas- 
ingly in  his  frame.  Is  the  movement  of  the 
picture  due  to  the  furnace  heat  behind  the 
partition  wall?  To  you,  perhaps.  To  me 
he  is  plainly  motioning  to  the  covers. 

Methinks,  also,  that  my  good  Irish  ter- 
rier, who  is  often  by  my  side,  looks  up 
at  the  fox’s  pelt  more  intently  as  autumn 


When  Leaves  Grow  Sere. 


89 


draws  on  apace.  The  fox  may  suggest  the 
covers  and  its  denizens  to  him,  as  the  mo- 
tion of  the  pointer  suggests  them  to  me — 
the  fleet  forms  that  haunt  their  mazy  fast- 
nesses, the  hares  and  rabbits  and  vanishing 
shadows  his  steel  sinews  are  eager  to  pur- 
sue. Surely  his  sharply  pointed  ears,  his 
quivering  muscles,  and  his  glittering  hazel 
eyes  are  in  sympathy  with  the  movements 
of  the  pointer,  and  second  his  invitation  to 
the  woods. 

Musing  upon  the  ancient  print,  with  its 
rolling  background  of  hill  and  dale,  I some- 
times picture  the  scene  of  desolation  which 
would  ensue  were  the  woods  and  waters 
stripped  of  their  native  tenants — the  game 
which  is  at  once  their  glory  and  their  joy. 
Fancy  the  landscape  denuded  of  the  wild 
life  that  is  as  indigenous  as  its  flora,  that  is 
nurtured  upon  its  mast,  and  derives  suste- 
nance from  the  very  twigs  and  leaves  of  its 
vegetation.  Conceive,  if  it  be  possible, 
streams  with  no  trout  to  people  their  pools 
and  shallows,  waters  that  never  mirrored 
the  wood-drake’s  mail,  and  lakes  unruffled 
by  the  web  of  wild  fowl. 

Imagine  the  woodlands  with  no  grouse 
to  beat  the  reveille  of  spring,  no  hares  to 
thread  their  shaded  labyrinths,  no  fox  to 
prowl  through  their  coverts.  Silence  the 
scream  of  the  hawk,  and  the  voice  of 
the  owl,  crow,  and  jay,  and  instantly  the 


90 


The  Story  of  my  House . 


landscape  would  be  deprived  of  half  its 
beauty,  its  innate  beauty  of  sound.  Game 
is  the  essence  of  the  woods  and  free,  un- 
civilized Nature — the  division  line  that  sep- 
arates the  wild  from  the  tame — and  he 
whose  nerves  have  never  tingled  at  the 
electric  whir  of  a game-bird’s  wing  and  the 
responsive  boom  of  the  double-barrel,  has 
remained  insensible  to  one  of  the  most  in- 
spiring exhilarations  of  the  senses.  Just  as 
the  library  refreshes  and  stimulates  the 
mind,  so  do  the  woods,  the  streams,  and 
the  stubbles  become  a field  of  health  for  the 
body,  and  by  the  invigorating  and  elevating 
recreation  they  yield  do  field  sports  serve 
to  strengthen  both  mind  and  body.  Enough 
for  me  that  autumn  is  here  ; I must  accept 
the  invitation  of  the  old  pointer,  and  exam- 
ine for  myself  what  the  woods  have  in 
store. 

Brilliant  as  they  are  in  the  flush  of  their 
October  splendor,  they  will  lose  but  little 
of  their  beauty  as  autumn  wanes.  The 
bare  trees  extend  and  expand  the  landscape 
for  me,  contributing  enchantments  of  dis- 
tance that  only  denuded  vegetation  may 
reveal.  Then,  with  the  weather  in  a gra- 
cious mood,  I obtain  effects  that  the  green 
entanglement  of  summer  never  knew.  The 
purple  bloom  upon  my  hills  is  never  half  so 
exquisite  as  when  a thaw  has  freed  them 
temporarily  from  their  coverlet  of  snow, 


When  Leaves  Grow  Sere. 


91 


disclosing  their  russet  slopes  and  leafless 
trees.  A new  palette  of  color  is  presented 
in  these  subtle  gradations  of  umber  and 
ochre,  of  drab  and  of  bronze,  that  drape  the 
withered  stubbles.  Sere  and  faded  in  the 
latter  year,  the  lonely  marsh  is  yet  glorious 
with  subdued  hues  when  touched  by  the 
afternoon  splendor.  The  hush  which  broods 
upon  the  landscape,  too,  has  a charm  of  its 
own,  in  harmony  with  the  quiet  tones  of 
the  slumbering  woods.  The  very  lisp  of 
the  chickadee  and  solemn  tap  of  the  nut- 
hatch only  intensify  the  repose  of  Nature; 
and  I question  if  the  combined  glories  of  the 
midsummer  twilight,  when  the  bat  and 
night-hawk  raced  upon  the  evening  sky, 
yielded  anything  so  radiantly  beautiful  as 
the  slant  November  sunlight  streaming 
through  the  trees  of  the  lowland,  its  vivid 
crimsons  reflected  in  the  pools  below. 

The  airy  spray  of  the  beech  I may  ad- 
mire only  during  winter,  and  only  when  it 
stands  divested  of  its  summer  garniture 
may  I behold  the  marvelous  framework  of 
the  elm.  Attractive  as  it  is  when  robed  in 
the  bloom  and  leafage  of  summer,  the  thorn 
develops  a new  beauty  in  its  gnarled  and 
naked  branches  and  the  hoariness  of  its  gray 
antiquity.  Loveliest,  too,  are  the  birch  and 
hemlock  in  midwinter  ; whilst  the  swamp, 
ablaze  with  the  scarlet  fruit  of  the  Prinos 
and  smooth  winterberry,  presents  its  most 


92 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


vivid  life  above  the  snow.  From  it,  likewise, 
I catch  the  gleam  of  the  golden  willow,  with 
purple  rufous  lights  that  smolder  amid  the 
twigs  and  branchlets  of  the  shrubs  which 
seek  its  cool  and  solitude.  Again,  when 
the  snow  comes  sifting  down  from  the  pal- 
lid sky,  what  magical  effects  do  I not  ob- 
tain amid  the  dark  mysterious  depths  of  the 
hemlock  woods!  Even  then  my  hills  and 
woods  offer  a glorious  excuse  for  an  outing. 
For  have  I not  long  pictured  in  imagination 
the  shadowy  vistas  where  I know  the  big 
white  hares  are  in  waiting  ? 

It  is  worth  scaling  a dozen  hillsides  to 
breathe  such  air  and  obtain  such  views. 
No  play  of  sunlight  on  an  English  South 
Down  could  be  finer,  and  no  lines  of  beauty 
fairer  than  those  revealed  by  distant  table- 
land and  wide-extending  vale.  A silence, 
broken  only  by  the  roar  of  far-off  railroad 
trains  or  the  ring  of  the  woodsman’s  axe, 
rests  like  a benediction  over  all,  a sleep  of 
Nature — peaceful,  deep,  profound. 

Within  the  shelter  of  the  wood,  beneath 
the  refuge  of  the  evergreens  and  under- 
growth, it  is  warm ; without,  the  gale  may 
rave,  and,  above,  the  tree-tops  wail  a requiem 
for  the  departing  year;  but  here  below  it  is 
protected  as  within  the  walls  of  a building. 
On  either  hand  extend  the  green  arcades  of 
the  hemlocks,  like  the  nave  and  transepts 
of  a cathedral.  The  downy  woodpecker 


When  Leaves  Grow  Sere. 


93 


and  titmouse  are  here,  ever  present  as  chor- 
isters; the  wild  life  of  the  woods  is  here, 
the  companionship  of  bird  and  beast  and 
dormant  vegetable  life.  There  is  life  beat- 
ing beneath  the  mold,  beneath  the  snowy 
mantle — the  ermine  with  which  Nature 
keeps  her  treasures  warm.  There  is  life — 
nimble,  fleet,  and  stirring — above  the  tell- 
tale snow. 

That  is  a fox’s  track  leading  to  his  den 
on  the  hillside,  the  return  trail  of  Reynard 
whose  sortie  toward  the  barn-yards  you 
previously  noticed.  When  he  started  on 
his  foray  his  pace  was  a walk,  as  his  foot- 
steps close  together  reveal.  Warily  he  was 
proceeding  under  cover  of  the  darkness, 
planning  the  best  means  of  ingress  to  his 
gallinaceous  goal.  All  the  caution  of  a 
skilled  general  on  the  eve  of  a decisive  bat- 
tle is  apparent  in  his  skulking  foot-prints. 
His  dreaded  enemies  are  well  known. 
Only  yesterday  the  hounds  were  hot  in  his 
pursuit,  and  the  echoes  reverberated  with 
the  volley  of  barbarous  vulpicides,  which 
happily  fell  wide  of  its  mark.  But  he  will 
outwit  them  all!  His  trained  cunning  has 
taught  him  the  danger  of  traps  and  gins; 
his  fleet  foot  has  long  borne  him  through 
many  a loop-hole  of  escape.  The  stork’s 
invitation  to  dine  must  needs  be  deftly  per- 
fumed and  framed  on  an  unusually  tempting 
card  to  induce  him  to  take  his  claret  out  of 


94 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


long-necked  carafes  or  his  pate  de  foie  gras 
from  metal  tureens. 

The  tracks  leading  back  from  the  farm- 
yard show  him  to  have  been  jogging  along 
at  a more  rapid  gait.  The  prints  are  the 
same,  except  that  they  are  farther  apart, 
one  following  directly  behind  the  other, 
Indian  filewise,  in  an  almost  straight  line. 
His  object  accomplished,  there  was  no 
further  need  of  extreme  caution  or  dalliance. 
From  a safe  distance  he  had  watched  the 
lights  in  the  farm-house  till  one  by  one 
they  were  extinguished,  had  waited  until 
all  was  silent,  and  his  keen  scent  apprised 
him  that  danger  was  past.  It  was  then  an 
easy  matter  to  pounce  upon  and  bear  off 
the  unsuspecting  prey.  Along  his  return 
trail  there  are  feathers  strewed  here  and 
there,  attesting  conclusively  that  his  raid 
was  successful. 

Lightly  he  tripped  along  with  elevated 
brush,  the  booty  slung  over  his  shoulder, 
to  the  safeguard  of  his  den.  Obviously  be- 
fore reaching  his  haven  he  has  been  startled 
by  something.  The  tracks,  still  in  a straight 
line,  become  much  farther  apart;  the  trot 
has  given  place  to  a canter  for  a few  rods, 
when  his  former  gait  is  resumed.  The 
baying  of  a hound,  perchance,  from  his 
kennel  on  the  farther  hillside,  or  the  bark 
of  a fellow-vulpine  freebooter,  has  quick- 
ened his  pace  for  the  moment.  Where  he 


When  Leaves  Grow  Sere. 


95 


struck  into  a gallop  the  prints  of  his  nails 
are  visible;  these  do  not  show  when  he 
progresses  on  his  customary  trot  or  walk, 
so  well  are  his  feet  protected  for  extended 
predations  by  the  thick  fur  padding  between 
the  toes.  His  long  sweeping  brush  never 
once  touched  the  snow,  burdened  though 
he  was  by  his  plunder.  This  he  carries 
well  up,  knowing  the  increased  weight  it 
would  engender  should  he  get  it  wet.  A 
cat  is  not  more  careful  of  her  dainty  feet 
than  is  sly  Reynard  of  his  precious  tail. 

In  general,  a fox  that  has  acquired  a 
taste  for  poultry  is  considered  rather  an  un- 
desirable subject  for  the  chase  proper.  A 
poultry  fox  always  makes  his  headquarters 
near  the  farmsteads.  His  daily  beat,  there- 
fore, is  limited  as  to  distance  compared 
with  his  brethren  who  subsist  by  foraging 
in  the  woods,  and  whose  nightly  rounds 
embrace  a very  much  larger  territory.  Usu- 
ally a poultry  fox,  if  started,  does  not  take 
a straight  line  very  far,  but,  after  leading  a 
short  distance,  commences  to  circle,  coming 
round  to  the  place  of  starting  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  hare.  A fox  who  subsists  on 
game  knows  all  the  fat  covers  of  the  neigh- 
borhood where  the  most  game  lies.  His 
extended  tramps  give  him  wind,  fleetness, 
and  endurance,  while  his  familiarity  with 
every  rod  of  the  covers  stands  him  in  excel- 
lent stead  when  hotly  pursued. 


96 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


A round  glittering  eyeball,  bright  as  a 
coal  of  fire,  is  scrutinizing  you  from  beneath 
a pile  of  brushwood  at  the  edge  of  the 
cover.  Scarcely  is  the  gun  discharged  ere 
a small  covey  of  quail  spring  close  at  hand. 
Investigation  is  needless  to  reveal  the  baf- 
fled assassin;  the  tell-tale  tracks  upon  the 
snow,  round  like  those  of  a fox,  but  smaller, 
and  the  distance  between  considerably  less, 
divulge  the  nature  of  the  trespasser.  It  is 
none  other  than  a cat,  the  petted  tabby  of 
the  farmstead,  that  spends  a large  portion 
of  its  time  in  stalking  game — a poachei 
scarcely  less  destructive  than  its  fierce  wild 
congener.  When  once  a taste  for  game  has 
been  formed,  pursuit  is  thenceforward  con- 
tinual and  relentless,  till  the  offender  usually 
ends  by  adopting  a permanent  woodland 
abode,  where  it  thrives  lustily,  increasing 
in  size  and  acquiring  a heavy  coat  of  fur. 

Look  at  this  much-traveled  esplanade, 
where  the  tracks  show  so  thickly  upon  the 
snow.  Overnight  the  hares  and  rabbits 
have  been  browsing  upon  the  young  beech, 
maple,  and  hemlock  buds,  with  an  occa- 
sional sally  into  the  brier  patches.  The 
numerous  trails  indicate  they  have  availed 
themselves  of  the  bright  moonlight  to  con- 
tinue their  feeding  longer  than  usual.  On 
moonlight  nights  the  Leporidce  always  travel 
most;  on  cold,  blustering  nights  they  sel- 
dom leave  their  forms.  Birds  and  animals 


When  Leaves  Grow  Sere. 


97 


dislike  to  venture  out  during  stormy  weather 
unless  impelled  by  hunger.  At  such  times 
a wood  throbbing  with  animate  life  seems 
entirely  deserted  by  its  furred  and  feathered 
population.  Vainly,  then,  the  pointer  or 
setter  may  quarter  the  ground;  the  game 
lies  concealed  and  apparently  scentless  be- 
neath the  brush  and  hiding-places,  refusing 
to  leave  its  refuge  unless  almost  stepped 
upon.  An  apparently  similar  disappearance 
of  game  is  often  noticeable  when  the  weather 
is  fair  immediately  preceding  a storm.  The 
squirrels  are  warmly  housed  in  their  nests 
within  the  trees.  Many  of  the  grouse  seek 
shelter  amid  the  dense  hemlocks,  sitting 
close  to  the  trunks  on  the  leeside  of  the 
storm,  protected  by  the  thick  foliage  and 
their  own  matting  of  feathers.  The  closest 
of  beating  then  goes  for  little,  so  that  in  a 
wood  where  you  know  game  exists  in  com- 
parative abundance  it  appears  a mystery 
whither  all  its  wild  life  has  fled. 

The  white  hare  and  rabbit  tracks — if  the 
smaller  Lepus  may  be  referred  to  as  a rabbit 
■ — which  strew  the  ground  are  identical  save 
in  size.  There  are  first  the  marks  of  the 
hind  feet,  side  by  side,  followed  by  those 
of  the  fore  feet,  one  behind  the  other.  Thus 
it  is  seen  the  gait  is  always  a lope  or  bound, 
and  that  in  springing  the  hare  brings  up 
with  his  hind  feet  nearest  the  head,  alight- 
ing, however,  on  all  fours  at  once.  His 


98 


The  Story  of  my  House . 


long,  powerful  hind-quarters  seem  made  of 
rubber  sinews,  the  crooked  stifles  and  great 
strength  of  thigh  acting  as  levers  to  the 
supple  body  framed  with  special  regard  to 
speed — his  sole  protection.  In  reaching  for 
the  buds  and  young  shoots  of  the  under- 
growth during  the  deep  snows,  he  is  ma- 
terially aided  by  his  long  hind  legs. 

Under  the  beeches  the  squirrels  have 
been  busy  scratching  for  the  mast;  these 
appear  to  be  the  most  restless  foragers  of 
the  wood,  their  trails  being  by  far  the  most 
numerous.  Like  the  hare’s  and  rabbit’s, 
their  gait  is  a lope.  As  he  lands  from  his 
spring,  the  hind  feet  of  the  squirrel  touch 
the  ground  nearest  the  head,  as  in  the  case 
of  the  hare  and  rabbit,  but  the  two  forward 
feet,  instead  of  striking  one  before  the  other, 
strike  nearly  side  by  side,  like  a single  foot- 
fall. Occasionally,  not  often,  he  prints  simi- 
larly to  the  rabbit  in  the  position  of  the  feet, 
although  always  smaller  and  somewhat  less 
pointed.  The  large  blacks  and  grays  are 
persecuted  by  the  smaller  pugnacious  reds, 
which  frequently  drive  them  entirely  out  of 
a wood,  first  pilfering  their  nests  of  the 
shack  they  have  stored. 

Here  Master  Reynard  has  been  mousing, 
seated  on  a stump  intently  watching,  his 
flowing  brush  clear  of  the  snow ; the  air  is 
tainted  with  his  strong  odor.  Where  he 
made  a leap  his  footmarks  are  distinctly 


When  Leaves  Grow  Sere. 


99 


visible  amid  the  numerous  tracks  of  the 
field-mice — a dainty  of  which  he  is  ex- 
tremely fond.  Yonder  is  the  scene  of  an 
oft-enacted  woodland  tragedy,  with  Rey- 
nard in  his  great  title  role  of  slayer.  There, 
beneath  the  shelter  of  an  uprooted  beech,  a 
grouse  had  repaired  for  his  nightly  slumber, 
his  head  screened  from  the  moonlight  under 
his  protecting  wings.  The  impress  of  his 
form  is  clearly  molded  upon  the  snow. 
But,  alas!  his  now  tattered  plumage  and  a 
prowling  fox’s  foot-prints  attest  his  grim 
awakening  when  his  relentless  foe  discov- 
ered his  retreat.  For  this  had  his  wings 
so  often  rung  defiance  to  the  double-barrel ; 
to  this  ignominious  end  had  he  come  at 
last!  Were  the  ghosts  of  murdered  grouse 
to  haunt  the  scenes  of  their  earthly  sojourn, 
they  might  rattle  their  featherless  wings  in 
triumph  to  know  that  on  this  self-same 
hillside,  but  a few  rods  from  the  scene  of 
the  tragedy,  Master  Reynard  met  his  fate, 
a week  afterward,  in  the  jaws  of  clamorous 
hounds. 

It  requires  a very  warm  day  in  winter 
to  tempt  a coon  from  his  hibernacle.  To- 
day his  large  flat  prints  and  zigzag  course 
are  not  observable ; he  is  snugly  clad  in  his 
fur  overcoat  within  the  fastness  of  a shelter- 
ing tree.  The  ground-hog  is  sealed  in  his 
burrow  outside  the  wood,  having  “pulled 
his  hole  in  after  him”;  this  he  covers  up 
7 


IOO 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


with  leaves  and  earth,  until,  after  his  pro- 
tracted slumber,  he  emerges  to  view  his 
shadow  in  the  spring. 

That  was  an  owl  which  skimmed  the 
air  so  silently,  on  wings  soft  as  eider-down, 
noiseless  as  a butterfly,  and  stealthy  as  a 
fox’s  tread.  It  is  not  often  one  sees  an 
owl,  however;  in  the  day-time  he  usually 
sleeps,  seldom  leaving  his  retreat  till  dusk, 
unless  during  gloomy  weather.  The  little 
or  screech  owls  are  more  frequently  seen 
by  day  than  the  larger  species.  With  the 
hawk,  crow,  jay,  skunk,  and  fox,  the  owl 
is  extremely  destructive  to  eggs  and  young 
birds  during  the  nesting  season,  large  owls 
not  hesitating  to  pounce  upon  full-grown 
hares,  and  sharing  with  the  fox  a great 
fondness  for  poultry.  The  skunk  leaves  a 
print  similar  to  that  of  the  fox  and  cat,  bar- 
ring its  reduced  size.  There  are  invariably 
numbers  of  these  threading  the  runways 
and  leading  to  and  from  the  farmsteads. 

There  is  a murmur  like  unto  many  voices 
in  the  woods’  mysterious  depths,  as  if  Pan 
and  his  train  of  Oreads  were  holding  a revel 
within.  It  is  a combination  of  numerous 
sounds  that  produces  these  ceaseless  whis- 
pers of  the  woods.  You  hear  them  in  sum- 
mer when  the  insect  choirs  are  chanting  an 
aerial  melody  and  the  hermit-thrush  sings 
as  if  he  had  a soul;  you  hear  them  in  winter 
when  the  wind  sobs  amid  the  needles  of 


When  Leaves  Grow  Sere. 


IOI 


the  pines,  and  the  woodpecker’s  hammer 
resounds  unceasingly  from  hollow  trees; 
you  hear  them  now,  on  every  hand,  a chorus 
of  voices,  the  forest’s  pulsations — a palpable 
part  and  portion  of  its  solitude.  How  weird 
the  cry  of  the  blue  jay,  the  loon  of  the 
woods,  whose  startling  scream  sounds  like 
that  a faun  might  utter  in  despair!  His  sap- 
phire coronet  is  not  for  you,  however;  he 
jeers  at  you  in  strident  tones  from  his  strong- 
hold in  the  tree-tops,  keeping  close  watch 
of  you,  but  taking  care  to  remain  well  out 
of  range.  Like  his  clamorous  friend  the 
crow,  he  has  scented  F.  F.  F.  powder  be- 
fore. At  intervals  the  airy  treble  of  the  tree- 
sparrow  swells  the  sylvan  choir — a minor 
but  most  melodious  addition  to  the  chorus. 
When  the  powdery  snow  patters  upon  the 
withered  leaves  and  the  stillness  is  other- 
wise almost  unbroken,  you  may  hear  his 
carillon  while  he  feeds  on  the  tender  buds 
of  the  sweet  birch.  “A  merry  heart  goes 
all  the  day  ” is  his  motto  and  the  tenor  of 
his  blithe  refrain. 

There  are  grouse  tracks  also  that  have 
left  their  reflection  in  winter’s  mirror — the 
roving  feet  of  the  brown  forest  hermit,  the 
daintiest  print  upon  the  snow.  Unless  dis- 
turbed, the  ruffed-grouse  will  travel  a great 
distance  on  foot  through  the  woods  in  quest 
of  food.  A single  bird  will  leave  a surpris- 
ing number  of  tracks  in  the  course  of  his 


102 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


protracted  wanderings,  so  that  one  is  often 
puzzled  at  the  comparative  scarcity  of  birds. 
But  even  on  the  snow  he  is  extremely  diffi- 
cult to  detect,  so  closely  does  he  blend  with 
his  surroundings.  Not  until  he  springs  with 
sonorous  pinions  close  at  your  side  are  you 
made  aware  of  his  precise  location,  when 
you  wonder  you  had  not  observed  him  be- 
fore. All  game  is  alike  in  this  respect — 
difficulty  of  detection — even  to  the  brilliantly 
marked  trout,  which  assume  the  general 
color  of  the  bottom  of  streams  in  which 
they  lie. 

Should  you  shoot  a crow  amid  your 
rambles,  a swarm  of  mourners  will  quickly 
be  in  attendance  on  the  remains.  Within 
a few  minutes  every  ebon  inhabitant  of  the 
neighborhood,  apprised  by  the  alarm  of  its 
companions,  may  be  seen  winging  its  way 
thereto  with  loud  cawings.  It  can  not  be 
the  sense  of  sight  alone  that  locates  the 
dead,  for  the  discovery  will  not  unfrequent- 
ly  occur  in  thick  cover  or  open  glade. 

One  of  the  numerous  runways  of  the 
hares,  within  gunshot  of  which  you  have 
taken  position,  extends  through  a glade, 
affording  ample  opportunity  to  observe  the 
game.  The  eager  hounds  have  struck  the 
scent  leading  to  a form  in  a thicket  of  brier 
where  the  quarry  lies  concealed.  The  star- 
tled hare  leaps  from  his  covert,  with  the 
hounds  in  full  cry  coming  directly  toward 


When  Leaves  Grow  Sere. 


103 


you,  until,  turning  into  another  runway,  the 
music  recedes  in  the  distance.  Amid  the 
frenzy  of  pursuit  two  other  hares  have  been 
started,  the  deep  baying  indicating  the 
course  of  the  divided  pack.  Round  and 
round  the  fleet  hares  circle,  one  of  them 
after  a prolonged  flight  approaching  your 
standpoint.  His  agile  dash  for  liberty  has 
left  his  pursuers  in  the  rear,  and  he  pauses 
— a white  silhouette  of  living  beauty,  and 
the  embodiment  of  nimble  speed — for  a 
survey.  He  sits  upon  his  great  hind  legs — 
his  only  safeguard — turning  his  long  clean- 
cut  ears  forward  and  backward,  each  one 
singly,  to  focus  the  sound.  The  music 
swells  into  a grand  crescendo,  the  twigs 
crackle  beneath  the  trampling  of  many  feet, 
and  the  hare  is  off  again  with  the  speed  of 
the  racer.  The  baying  of  the  pack  indicates 
the  direction  of  pursuit,  whether  the  game 
is  coming  or  going.  A hare  always  circles, 
returning  sooner  or  later  to  the  place  he 
started  from;  he  never  “holes,”  like  the 
rabbit,  unless  in  a log  when  exhausted.  To 
baffle  the  dogs  he  will  sometimes  imitate 
his  wily  master,  Reynard,  by  taking  his 
back  track  for  quite  a distance,  and  then, 
leaping  aside,  to  strike  out  on  a fresh  course ; 
by  this  means  he  gains  a breathing-spell 
and  puzzles  his  foes. 

So  the  sport  progresses,  and  the  bag 
mounts  with  the  lengthening  shadows.  An 


io4 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


owl  is  sounding  his  lone  “tu-whoo!” 
when  the  hounds  come  in  with  lolling 
tongues  and  trembling  flanks  from  the  pro- 
longed excitement  of  the  chase.  The  last 
hare  has  carmined  the  snow  with  his  life- 
blood, and  the  heavy  spoils  are  harled  and 
strung.  The  flaming  fires  of  sunset  are 
smoldering  into  ashen  embers  in  the  soft 
southwest;  the  tender  violets  of  the  remote 
table-lands  chill  to  colder  purples  with  day’s 
decline;  the  marshaled  ranks  of  the  skeleton 
trees  stand  out  upon  the  hills  as  if  limned  in 
India  ink;  the  mellow  hyemal  twilight 
deepens  over  woodland  and  valley,  till  the 
perfect  winter  day  merges  into  the  moonlit 
winter  night  and  the  vale  of  the  sport. 


VI. 

DECORATIVE  DECORATIONS. 


All  arts  are  one,  howe’er  distributed  they  stand; 

Verse,  tone,  shape,  color,  form,  are  fingers  on  one  hand. 

W.  W.  Story. 

■hile  I make  no  pretense  of  vying 
with  the  shops  of  bric-a-brac 
and  curios— it  has  been  said  the 
modern  house  has  come  to  re- 
semble a magazine  of  bric-a-brac 
— yet,  somehow,  I find  a great  many  ob- 
jects which  would  be  classed  under  this 
definition  have  gradually  drifted  or  floated 
in,  and  have  become  as  much  of  an  artistic 
and  companionable  feature  of  the  house  as 
the  paintings  on  the  walls.  Especially  since 
the  arrival  of  my  ship,  when  several  large 
bales  with  cabalistic  marks  and  lettering 
proved  on  opening  to  be  a veritable  reposi- 
tory of  ancient  Oriental  workmanship  and 
design. 

1 can  conceive  of  no  more  hideous  night- 
mare than  that  which  must  haunt  one  who 
is  obliged  to  live  in  intimate  companionship 
with  many  of  the  so-called  “ornaments” 


io  6 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


that  dealers  and  the  fashion  of  the  hour  force 
upon  one,  and  that,  in  one  guise  or  another, 
must  ever  be  snarling  and  snapping  at  the 
unfortunate  possessor.  Littered  up  with 
all  sorts  of  outre  and  unmeaning  knick- 
knacks,  the  home  at  once  becomes  a place 
to  flee  from;  and  instead  of  the  spirit  of 
quiet  elegance  and  congruity  which  should 
prevail,  there  reigns  a pandemonium  of  dis- 
conformity.  Yet  a certain  amount  of  bric- 
a-brac  is  not  only  admissible  but  requisite 
to  the  decorative  atmosphere  of  the  interior. 
Its  effect  depends  upon  the  choosing.  Given 
a correct  eye  for  color  and  form  and  a natural 
feeling  for  harmony,  Sir  William  Temple’s 
sentence  is  pertinent,  “The  measure  of 
choosing  well  is  whether  a man  likes  what 
he  has  chosen.”  Like  my  paintings,  rugs, 
and  etchings,  so  also  my  porcelains,  bronzes, 
arms,  and  armor  are  pleasing  objects  for  the 
eye  to  rest  upon  ; and,  ranged  upon  the 
shelves  and  about  the  apartments,  minister 
equally  in  the  expression  and  variety  they 
lend  to  the  surroundings. 

I rejoice  in  my  collection  of  arms  and 
armor.  Many  rare  antiques  from  the  Stam- 
boul  bazaars  my  ship  contained — lovely  in- 
laid Persian  guns,  exquisitely  mounted  Al- 
banian pistols,  antique  rapiers,  daggers,  and 
swords,  ancient  kandjars  and  yataghans, 
with  scabbards  of  repousse  silver,  of  velvet, 
of  copper,  of  shagreen  and  Ymen  leather; 


Decorative  Decorations. 


107 


with  handles  of  jade,  agate,  and  ivory,  con- 
stellated with  garnets,  turquoises,  corals, 
and  girasols;  long,  narrow,  large,  curved; 
of  all  forms,  of  all  times,  of  all  countries; 
from  the  Damascene  blade  of  the  Pasha,  in- 
crusted  with  verses  of  the  Koran  in  letters 
of  gold,  to  the  coarse  knife  of  the  camel- 
driver.  How  many  Zeibecs  and  Arnauts, 
how  many  beys  and  effendis,  how  many 
omrahs  and  rajahs  have  not  stripped  their 
girdles  to  form  this  precious  arsenal  which 
would  have  rendered  Decamps  mad  with 
joy!  * 

There  are,  moreover,  glistening  helmets 
and  coats-of-mail,  corselets,  maces,  spears 
and  hauberks,  battle-axes  and  halberds, 
bucklers  of  tortoise-shell  and  Damascene 
steel — all  the  implements  of  the  ferocious 
ingenuity  of  Islam.  On  the  blue  blade  of 
this  magnificent  yataghan,  still  keen  and 
glittering,  its  ivory  handle  inlaid  with  topaz 
and  turquoise,  is  graven  the  number  of 
heads  it  has  severed.  These  cruel  swords, 
now  crossed  so  peacefully,  were  once 
crossed  in  savage  strife  and  brandished  in 
hate  upon  the  battle-field  amid  the  blare  of 
Mussulman  trumpets  and  the  shouts  of 
murderous  Janizaries.  Often,  as  the  sun- 
light strikes  the  lustrous  steel,  do  they 
seem  to  leap  into  life  and  flash  anew  in  re- 


* Gautier.  Constantinople — Les  Bazars. 


io8  The  Story  of  my  House. 


membrance  of  the  battle-cry  of  Mohammed. 
Though  mostly  of  great  age,  my  arms  and 
armor  are  all  in  a state  of  perfect  preserva- 
tion. For  mere  antiquity  in  art  objects  or 
curios  is  not  desirable  in  itself.  Age  has  its 
charms  unquestionably,  but  it  becomes  a 
valuable  factor  only  when  accompanied  by 
beauty.  Where  an  object  loses  its  pristine 
beauty  through  time,  age  is  a detriment 
rather  than  a desideratum.  With  many 
classes  of  art  objects  time  heightens  their 
attraction,  or  at  least  does  not  detract  from 
it.  In  all  such,  age  is  a desirable  quantity. 
To  be  old  is  generally  to  be  rare;  but  an 
object  may  be  rare  and  still  be  undesirable. 
Objects  that  are  extremely  sensitive  to 
wear  are  usually  worthless  when  old. 
Others,  like  tapestries  and  Oriental  textiles, 
are  improved  by  use,  and  gain  in  richness 
and  value  through  age.  An  ancient  textile 
or  article  of  bric-a-brac  is  only  desirable 
when,  added  to  intrinsic  beauty  of  texture, 
color,  form,  or  design,  it  preserves  its 
youth  in  its  antiquity,  or  acquires  addi- 
tional attractiveness  through  time. 

Naturally,  my  ship  contained  many  fine 
stuffs  and  hangings — old  Flemish,  French, 
and  Italian  tapestries,  embroideries  from 
Broussa  and  Salonica,  Spanish  brocades, 
and  brocades  from  Borhampor  and  Ah- 
medabad,  with  some  priceless  ancient  altar 
cloths,  chasubles,  and  dalmaticas  I had  long 


Decorative  Decorations. 


109 


desired  to  possess.  Yet  with  all  these  and 
other  acquisitions,  now  that  the  bloom  of 
first  possession  is  brushed  off,  may  I de- 
clare without  prevarication  that  I am  fully 
satisfied?  Increase  of  appetite  but  grows 
on  what  it  feeds.  Collecting  begets  col- 
lecting, the  desire  for  possession  constantly 
increasing,  ever  goading  one  on  to  unrest 
in  the  quest  of  the  unprocurable.  How 
much  one  misses  with  a little  knowledge, 
and  how  much  one  gains!  The  love  for 
beauty  too  often  proves  a bane.  Even  a 
love  for  books  is  as  dangerous  as  a love 
for  bric-a-brac  or  art  objects — the  book  in 
the  end  becoming  an  art  object.  Gradual- 
ly, from  the  ordinary  editions  one  passes 
to  the  good  editions,  while  from  the  good 
it  is  but  a step  to  the  rare,  and  the  seeth- 
ing maelstrom  of  book-madness.  My  ship 
brought  me  many  of  my  decorations;  my 
books,  with  few  exceptions,  I must  pro- 
cure myself. 

But  though  sometimes  productive  of  re- 
grets, no  one  should  be  without  a hobby, 
or  hobbies.  “ Have  not  the  wisest  of  men 
in  all  ages,  not  excepting  Solomon  himself 
— have  they  not  had  their  hobby-horses  ? ” 
asks  Sterne.  “The  man  without  a hobby 
may  be  a good  citizen  and  an  honest  fel- 
low,” observes  George  Dawson,  in  his  al- 
together lovely  volume,  The  Pleasures  of 
Angling,  “but  he  can  have  but  few  golden 


IO 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


threads  running  through  the  web  or  woof 
of  his  monotonous  existence.”  A hobby  is 
the  best  of  preceptors,  and  rides  straight  to 
the  mark.  From  a good  collection  of  por- 
celains one  may  study  the  Chinese  dynas- 
ties, and  prepare  himself  for  an  Asiatic  tour 
by  a study  of  his  rugs.  Unconsciously  the 
collector  of  arms  and  armor  becomes  a 
student  of  the  history  of  numerous  peoples 
and  an  eye-witness  of  many  of  the  noted 
battles  of  the  world.  Were  I desirous  to 
thoroughly  familiarize  myself  with  the  his- 
tory of  the  American  red  man  I should  first 
proceed  to  collect  Indian  implements  of  the 
chase  and  war,  supplementing  these  by 
close  study  in  the  fertile  field  of  literature 
pertaining  to  the  Indians.  But  my  bows 
and  arrows  I should  shoot  first;  they  would 
be  the  guide  to  the  target. 

One  of  the  essays  of  Elia  has  demon- 
strated the  fallacy  of  the  adage  “enough  is 
as  good  as  a feast.”  In  decorations  it  were 
a scant  feast  without  the  endless  form  and 
color  supplied  by  the  potter’s  art.  Of  all 
art  objects,  a truly  fine  piece  of  old  porce- 
lain is  amongst  the  most  beautiful.  In  col- 
or it  may  outshine  a precious  stone  ; in 
form,  rival  that  of  a beautiful  object  of  Na- 
ture herself.  Its  very  frailty  and  frangibility 
intensify  its  charm,  and  when  possessing 
both  grace  of  contour  and  enchantment  of 
color  it  becomes  an  object  of  beauty  by  the 


Decorative  Decorations. 


1 1 1 


canons  of  the  most  perfect  art,  exciting  the 
profoundest  and  purest  pleasure — profound 
pleasure  to  all  who  behold  it,  supreme 
pleasure  to  him  who  possesses  it. 

I speak  of  the  finer  examples  of  Oriental 
ceramics,  though  I grant  there  is  much  to 
admire  in  some  of  the  Italian  soft-paste  por- 
celains, notably  the  lovely  Capo  di  Monte 
productions  of  the  first  period  and  the  fas- 
cinating Doccia  terraglias.  Royal  Worces- 
ter, despite  its  finish,  always  looks  new, 
and  Sevres  wares  I invariably  associate 
with  a gilded  French  salon  and  crimson 
brocatelle.  These  may  be  of  excellent  de- 
sign and  highly  wrought  decoration,  rep- 
resenting infinite  labor,  skill,  and  minutiae 
of  detail  ; but  they  seldom  seem  effective 
compared  with  the  handiwork  of  the  Orien- 
tal. For  the  most  part  European  ceramics 
may  not  be  included  under  Prof.  Grant 
Allen’s  term,  “ decorative  decoration.” 
Among  Oriental  porcelains,  it  is  well 
known  that  articles  produced  to-day  may 
not  be  compared  with  the  same  class  pro- 
duced in  the  past.  The  secret  of  the  mar- 
velous old  glazes  has  been  lost,  like  the 
secret  of  the  famed  old  Toledo  blades,  and 
the  craft  of  the  ancient  metal  workers.  It 
is  the  remote  Celestial  we  admire  and  re- 
vere. 

Apparently,  my  ship  must  have  touched 
some  of  the  out-of-the-way  ports  of  Hoi- 


I 12 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


land,  that  paradise  of  blue  and  white,  for 
her  collection  of  ceramics  was  rich  in  this 
form  of  Oriental  porcelains.  It  has  been 
asserted  that  the  love  for  blue  and  white  is 
a fashion,  a craze  that  can  not  endure.  But 
fine  blue  and  white  from  its  very  nature  is 
beyond  the  caprice  of  fashion,  and  must  be 
enduring  for  all  time.  What  other  blend- 
ing approximates  so  closely  to  Nature  ? It 
is  but  a Celestial  reflex  of  the  firmament — 
the  most  beautiful  of  all  sky  formations,  the 
summer  cumulus  cloud.  A coolness  of 
color  it  has  possessed  by  no  other  form  of 
porcelain  unless  by  the  incomparable  old 
solid  blue  and  blue-green  enamels. 

Not  that  my  ship’s  stores  were  limited 
to  the  blue  and  white  so  lavishly  distributed 
among  the  appreciative  Dutch  burghers  by 
the  fleets  of  a former  day.  There  were 
also  many  chrysanthema  that  could  only 
have  been  gathered  from  the  classic  gardens 
of  the  Celestial  himself— specimens  from 
the  periods  of  Wan-li,  Kia-tsing,  Ching-te, 
Ching-hoa,  Siouen-te,  and  yet  still  earlier 
rulers  of  the  great  dynasty  of  the  Mings ; di- 
aphanous egg-shells  of  the  reign  ofYong- 
tching  ; Kien-long  glazes  fabricated  in 
imitation  of  the  color  and  texture  of  old 
bronzes  ; delicate  sea-green  celadons  ; solid 
deep  iridescent  reds  ; and  frail  translucent 
white  pastes — marvels  of  the  furnaces  of  the 
past.  It  would  require  a Jacquemart  or  a 


Decorative  Decorations. 


!I3 


Dana  to  describe  them.  However  alien 
races  may  regard  the  Mongolian  and  his 
flowing  pigtail,  there  can  be  but  one  opin- 
ion of  the  forms  and  colors  crystallized  in 
these  his  airy  inspirations.  Matchless  stands 
the  ancient  Chinese  potter’s  art.  The  world 
might  find  a substitute  for  his  tea  ; his  finer 
vases,  jars,  and  bottles,  and  his  fantasies 
in  storks  and  dragons  are  unique  this  side 
of  paradise.  From  the  ordinary  blue  of 
Nankin  to  the  “blue  of  the  head  of  Bud- 
dha,” the  “blue  of  heaven,”  the  “blue  of 
the  sky  after  rain,”  the  “lapis  lazuli,”  and 
the  priceless  “turquoise,”  my  blue  porce- 
lains are  a study  of  the  clouds  and  the  sky. 

Blue!  “the  life  of  heaven,”  the  hue  of 
ocean,  the  violet's  joy  ; type  of  faith  and 
fidelity,  it  has  remained  for  the  almond- 
eyed  molder  of  clay  to  render  thy  beauty 
tangible.  When  I admire  the  hues  of  a 
Chinese  vase  or  bottle,  1 remember  that 
each  color  is  regarded  as  a symbol ; the 
fundamental  colors  being  five,  and  corre- 
sponding to  the  elements  (water,  fire, 
wood,  metals,  earth),  and  to  the  cardinal 
points  of  the  compass.  Red  belongs  to 
fire,  and  corresponds  to  the  south  ; black 
to  water  and  the  north  ; green  to  wood 
and  the  east  ; white  to  metal  and  the  west. 
Dark  blue  corresponds  to  the  sky,  and  yel- 
low to  the  earth  ; blue  belongs  to  the  east. 
Blue  is  combined  with  white,  red  with 


14 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


black,  and  dark  blue  with  yellow.  The 
dragon,  which  in  the  Chinese  zodiac  corre- 
sponds to  our  Aries , also  personifies  water, 
while  a circle  personifies  fire.* 

Of  the  bloom  of  the  peach  my  ship 
contained  no  example,  so  factitious  a value 
has  been  set  upon  this  color  by  pretended 
connoisseurs.  In  place  of  the  peach-blow, 

I found  gleaming  among  my  ceramics  a 
much  more  beautiful  form  of  opalescent 
porcelain — two  vases  of  the  extremely  rare 
“topaz,”  brilliant  as  the  gem  itself,  and  of 
which  these  are  unique  examples.  Did  I 
say  my  rugs  supplied  the  rarest  colors  ? 
1 had  forgotten  my  old  bottle  of  bleu 
de  del  and  my  ancient  vase  of  sang  de 
boeuf! 

The  bronzes  my  ship  contained  differed 
essentially  from  the  generality  of  those  I 
had  previously  known.  Apart  from  a few 
fine  specimens  enriched  with  gold  and  sil- 
ver, and  a superb  figure  of  Buddha,  they 
consisted  for  the  most  part  of  a singularly 
beautiful  collection  of  ancient  tripods,  tem- 
ple-censers and  incense-burners,  with  dark 
patine  and  antique-green  surfaces,  and  en- 
graved ornamentation  and  ornamentation  in 
relief.  The  largest  incense  urn  occupies  a 
prominent  place  in  the  hall,  and  often  curls 
its  fragrant  clouds  through  the  mouth  of  its 


* Jacquemart.  Histoire  de  la  Ceramique. 


Decorative  Decorations. 


”5 


dragon.  I light  it  when  I read  A Kempis 
and  the  Religio  Medici. 

Yet  the  stores  of  my  ship  would  have 
been  incomplete  without  an  old  hall-clock 
that  marks  the  time  for  me.  An  old  Dutch 
inlaid  hall-clock  of  all  clocks  for  symmetry, 
beauty,  and  sonority  ! It  measures  rather 
than  accelerates  the  flight  of  the  hours  ; and 
with  its  quarter  chimes,  its  deep  hour-bells, 
its  moons,  and  its  calendars,  it  punctuates 
not  only  the  moments  and  the  hours,  but 
chronicles  the  passage  of  the  months  and 
the  years.  I need  not  consult  a watch  for 
the  time,  or  a calendar  for  the  day  of  the 
month  and  the  phases  of  the  moon — the 
musical  voice  and  the  index-fingers  of  my 
clock  proclaim  them  for  me. 

Among  my  most  valued  curios  is  a 
superb  violoncello.  A glance  shows  that 
it  has  been  long  and  tenderly  caressed  by 
the  virtuoso  who  once  possessed  it  and 
developed  its  melodious  voice.  Even  its 
ancient  case  and  the  green  baize  of  the  lin- 
ing attest  the  care  it  has  received.  Scarce- 
ly a scratch  is  visible  on  the  lustrous  wood, 
and  its  curves  are  as  harmoniously  propor- 
tioned as  those  of  a Hebe.  There  is  a rich, 
mellow  tone  to  the  wood,  and  the  bow 
draws  tones  no  less  rich  and  mellow  from 
its  deep  caverns  of  sound.  Though  there 
are  no  traces  of  the  maker’s  name  or  the 
date  of  manufacture,  the  lovely  glaze  of  the 
8 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


1 1 6 


spruce  top  and  maple  back  at  once  pro- 
claim its  antiquity.  Beneath  the  strings 
the  rosin  has  left  a fine  mahogany  stain  ; 
and  there  are  worn  spots  on  the  hoops 
where  it  has  been  pressed  by  a loving 
knee.  The  grain  of  the  top  is  as  straight 
as  if  it  had  been  molded.  At  the  base 
of  the  gracefully  turned  scroll,  in  old 
English  script,  is  carved  an  “H,”  its  only 
mark. 

I find  the  same  difference  between  a 
violin  and  a violoncello  as  there  exists  be- 
tween a piano  and  an  organ.  The  differ- 
ence of  tone  between  individual  violoncellos 
is,  if  anything,  more  marked  than  in  most 
other  musical  instruments.  There  could  be 
nothing  more  sonorous  and  more  delicately 
shaded  than  the  magnificent  baritone  of  my 
old  violoncello  as  it  interprets  the  Cavatine 
by  Raff,  or  chants  the  Andante  by  Mozart. 
Sometimes,  methinks,  it  gives  forth  a still 
richer  consonance  when  it  renders  Stra- 
della’s  grave  Kirchen-Arie;  or,  indeed, 
whenever  noble  church  music  of  any  kind 
is  drawn  from  its  resonant  depths.  Then 
its  voice  seems  almost  human,  and  the 
strings  quiver  apparently  of  their  own  ac- 
cord. Is  it  fancy,  after  all  ? Are  not  its 
strings  sometimes  swept  by  unseen  fingers 
— the  tender  touch  of  The  Warden  of 
Barchester,  good  old  Septimus  Harding — 
who  possessed  it  in  years  gone  by;  who  so 


Decorative  Decorations. 


17 


often  found  solace  in  its  companionship 
from  the  tyranny  of  the  archdeacon  and  the 
bickerings  of  Barchester  Close  ! I almost 
find  myself,  like  the  warden,  passing  an 
imaginary  bow  over  an  imaginary  viol 
when  annoyed  or  harassed  away  from 
home,  so  strong  is  its  personality  and  so 
soothing  its  companionship.*  Trollope  has 
never  been  sufficiently  appreciated,  it  ap- 
pears to  me;  and  among  his  best  works  is 
his  simplest  one.  The  character  of  the 
warden,  so  exemplary  and  yet  so  vacillat- 
ing, the  old  men  of  the  hospital  who  love 
him  so  tenderly,  the  crafty  and  worldly 
archdeacon,  and,  withal,  the  mellow  eccle- 
siastical light  that  pervades  the  churchly 
precincts  of  the  Close,  form  a picture 
beautiful  in  its  quiet  coloring  and  simplic- 
ity. It  is  far  less  a novel  than  an  idyl,  and 
as  such  it  should  be  read  and  must  be  re- 
garded. 

Music  and  flowers  ! The  one  suggests 
arid  complements  the  other.  The  home 
should  never  be  without  either — they  are 
its  brightest  sunshine,  next  to  lovely  wo- 
man’s smile  and  the  laughter  of  a child. 
Averaged  throughout  the  year,  a dollar  a 
week  is  a modest,  reasonable  outlay  for  a 
man  of  limited  means  to  expend  for  the  lux- 


* The  Warden;  Barchester  Towers. — Anthony  Trol- 
lope. 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


1 18 


ury  of  flowers  in  the  house.  Every  petal 
holds  a beautiful  thought,  so  long  as  the 
flower  is  beautiful  and  the  petals  are  fresh. 
Even  a few  green  leaves  with  a single  fresh 
blossom  or  two  are  a solace  to  the  eye 
and  a balm  to  the  mind. 


VII. 

MY  STUDY  WINDOWS. 

How  perfect  an  invention  is  glass  ! The  sun  rises 
with  a salute,  and  leaves  the  world  with  a farewell  to 
our  windows.  To  have  instead  of  opaque  shutters,  or 
dull  horn  or  paper,  a material  like  solidified  air,  which 
reflects  the  sun  thus  brightly  !— Thoreau. 

{ a slaty  sky,  accompanied 
vaporous  clouds  throughout 
afternoon,  is  succeeded  by  a 
3 sunset,  a vivid  primrose 
id  extending  far,  and  linger- 
ing late  along  the  southern  horizon. 

I hear  an  angry  wind  at  night,  first 
tongued  by  the  distant  trees.  Rising  close 
to  the  edge  of  the  river,  the  copse  catches 
the  least  breath  of  the  west,  transmitting  its 
voice  through  the  trees.  Each  tree  thus 
becomes  a harp  or  viol  played  upon  by  the 
air  in  motion,  producing  a varied  music 
according  to  the  character  of  its  spray. 
How  different  the  sound  of  the  summer 
wind  ! the  whispering  and  rustling  of 
trillions  of  living  leaves  ; one  might  distin- 
guish the  season  by  the  sense  of  hearing 


120 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


alone.  Now  that  vegetation  is  devoid  of 
foliage,  there  is  so  much  less  to  obstruct  the 
current  of  the  air  brought  pure  and  unde- 
filed from  the  Western  plains.  This  air, 
additionally  sifted  and  clarified  by  its  pas- 
sage through  countless  woods  and  primeval 
forests,  I inhale  in  full  draughts  within  my 
comfortable  room.  Gathered  by  the  cold 
air-boxes,  this  oxygen  and  nitrogen  is  tem- 
pered and  warmed  by  a single  pound  of 
steam  below,  before  rising  fresh  and  deli- 
cious through  the  registers  above.  Thus 
even  in  midwinter  do  I receive  the  essence 
of  the  meadows  and  the  woods. 

Not  less  comfort  and  delight  do  I owe 
to  glass  than  to  coal.  It  retains  the  heat 
and  excludes  the  frost.  Scarcely  the  space 
of  a foot  separates  my  easy  chair  and  sum- 
mer warmth  from  falling  flakes  and  wintry 
cold.  It  lets  in  the  balm  of  the  sky  and  the 
grace  of  the  leafless  trees ; it  serves  to  simu- 
late summer.  Transparent  to  light  and 
to  outward  forms,  glass  is  merely  translu- 
cent to  sounds.  I look  out  and  see  the 
trees  rock  and  toss  beneath  the  gale ; I list- 
en, and  hear  the  wind  rejoicing  in  his 
strength.  Light  and  sunshine  stream 
through  my  window-pane  as  though  it 
were  a part  of  the  atmosphere.  It  is  almost 
like  the  atmosphere-transparent,  invisible, 
inodorous.  No  material  used  in  the  con- 
struction of  the  house  imparts  such  an  air 


My  Study  Windows. 


121 


of  richness  from  without  as  polished  plate- 
glass.  Is  it  not  equally  desirable  within, 
to  look  out  through  ? Let  the  carpets,  if 
necessary,  have  less  depth  of  pile  ; admit 
the  landscape  and  the  light  as  clearly 
as  we  may.  To  look  at  exterior  objects 
through  vitreous  waves  is  to  cheat  the 
sight  and  rob  pleasant  surroundings  of  their 
charm. 

Again,  the  glass  that  brings  the  land- 
scape into  my  room  shuts  out  the  external 
world  as  readily  as  it  lets  it  in — in  the  form 
of  stained  glass  it  passes  from  transparent 
to  translucent,  but  still  retains  its  life 
through  color.  I would  have  in  my  hall 
above  the  landing  a wheel-window  of 
ancient  stained  glass  to  render  daylight 
doubly  beautiful  and  refined — a flood  of 
violet  like  that  concentrated  and  diffused 
by  the  windows  of  the  tall  clere-story  of 
Tours.  But  the  gorgeous  stained  glass  of 
mediaeval  days,  such  as  still  blazes  in  the 
old  cathedrals,  is  an  art  of  the  past,  and 
my  ship  contained  it  not  amid  her  precious 
stores. 

Yet  once  more  is  glass  transformed,  and 
from  transparent  and  translucent  is  changed 
to  opaque-opaque,  yet  not  opaque.  Nei- 
ther clear  nor  colored,  it  possesses  still  more 
life  in  this  its  other  form.  For  my  mirrors 
not  only  receive  light  and  color,  but  stamp 
them  indelibly  upon  their  surface.  Placed 


122 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


in  certain  positions,  they  even  enable  me  to 
see  through  opaque  surfaces.  By  a glance 
into  the  hall  through  the  door  of  the  room 
where  I sit  I may  discern  what  transpires  in 
the  adjoining  room,  though  divided  from 
it  by  a solid  wall.  Without  my  mirrors  I 
could  not  even  recognize  my  outward  self. 
They  double  the  objects  in  my  house ; they 
double  the  number  of  my  guests;  they  pos- 
sess a double  life.  They  take  the  place  of 
a Daubigny,  for  do  they  not  reflect  the  Dau- 
bigny? And  lovely  woman,  how  could 
she  look  so  sweet  without  her  second  self 
— her  mirror! 

The  primroses  in  my  garden  are  harbin- 
gers of  spring;  the  primrose  band  in  the 
south  was  the  precursor  of  storm.  All 
night  the  wind  raved,  bringing  snow  and 
still  more  wind  with  returning  day.  The 
weather-cock  creaks  ominously  in  its  socket, 
pointing  alternately  west  and  northwest.  I 
note  a drop  of  twenty  degrees  in  the  tem- 
perature, and  hereafter  I shall  distrust  the 
primrose  band. 

Again  the  strange  light  in  the  south, 
shining  brightly  throughout  the  afternoon. 
This  band  appears  most  vividly  through  a 
vista  of  the  grounds  which  focuses  a distant 
slope  crowned  with  deciduous  trees  and 
isolated  pines.  I notice  it,  at  times,  dur- 
ing late  autumn  and  early  spring,  or  on 
mild  winter  days  when  the  moisture  of  the 


My  Study  Windows. 


123 


atmosphere  may  be  perceptibly  felt.  The 
weather-vane  always  points  to  it,  though 
no  air  be  stirring— indeed,  it  only  occurs 
during  a calm.  Glowing  through  the  skele- 
ton trees,  a lustrous  primrose  or  lively  cro- 
cus, it  illumines  and  transfigures  the  entire 
horizon  of  the  south,  as  if  inviting  to  fol- 
low it  to  a blander  clime.  It  seems  almost 
more  beautiful  than  sunlight ; it  is  col- 
ored sunlight  screened  from  glare.  When 
I attempt  to  trace  it  to  the  range  of  the 
southern  hills  it  keeps  receding  to  the  hills 
and  trees  beyond — always  present,  ever  out 
of  reach.  An  observer  standing  there,  in 
turn,  would  see  it  farther  on,  and  these  far- 
ther hills  and  trees  would  yield  its  lumi- 
nousness to  the  landscape  more  southward 
still. 

Is  it  typical  of  life — man  grasping  at  an 
object  only  to  see  it  disappear,  seizing  a 
pleasure  to  find  it  evanescent,  relinquishing 
a hope  for  one  yet  more  ephemeral;  ever 
reaching  for  happiness  to  meet  with  disap- 
pointment at  the  goal  ? 

Whence  its  origin  ? in  what  distant  sky 
does  it  first  appear  ? The  swift  wings  of 
the  hawk  might  trace  it  to  its  source ; for 
me  it  is  intangible.  Doubtless  with  a word 
the  meteorologists  would  dispel  the  charm 
it  holds.  I prefer  to  regard  it  as  an  occult 
force,  a mysterious  weather-sign  to  flash 
upon  the  wintry  gloom  and  foretell  the 


124 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


coming  storm.  In  the  present  instance  it 
brought  yet  more  moisture,  and  was  suc- 
ceeded the  following  day  by  fog  and  driv- 
ing mist,  changing  in  the  evening  to  sud- 
den cold  and  wind. 

A windy  moonlight  night,  with  clouds 
chasing  each  other  like  crests  of  advancing 
waves.  The  moon  rides  high  in  the  west; 
the  strong  wind  sweeps  from  the  west. 
./Bolus  and  all  his  retinue  are  abroad.  The 
hillside  trees  toss  and  boom  like  the  sea — 
it  is  high  tide  in  the  air.  The  air  becomes 
a sea,  the  clouds  its  surge,  the  trees  the 
shingle  upon  which  it  beats.  It  fascinates 
like  the  sea!  When  the  moon  appears  be- 
tween the  rifts  it  seems  stationary;  when 
partly  concealed  under  a white  cloud,  it  ap- 
pears coursing  rapidly  westward,  while  the 
clouds  seem  traveling  slowly  eastward. 
The  moon  then  becomes  the  voyager,  and 
the  squadrons  of  the  sky  the  loiterers.  Its 
luminousness  is  but  slightly  masked  by  the 
silver  clouds,  their  translucency  making 
them  seemingly  a source  of  light.  Every 
now  and  then  it  disappears  beneath  a mass 
of  inky  breakers,  gilding  their  outer  crests 
ere  taking  its  sudden  plunge;  it  looks 
as  if  it  were  dropping  from  the  sky.  Al- 
most immediately  it  reappears,  so  fast  the 
clouds  are  moving.  Anon  it  dips  beneath 
a snowy  surge,  to  re-emerge  and  sink  be- 
low a Cimmerian  roller,  just  as  a swimmer 


My  Study  Windows. 


125 


dives  into  and  is  lost  in  the  surf.  Mean- 
while, the  wind  roars  like  an  angry  sea. 
This  glory  of  the  wintry  night  my  glass 
brings  into  my  room.  But  the  silver  lining 
and  life  of  the  moonlit  clouds  can  not  be 
traced  in  written  words,  nor  the  varied 
voices  of  the  wind  be  rendered  into  musical 
bars.  The  moon  and  the  sun  shine  so  that 
all  may  see.  The  wind  blows  so  that  all 
may  hear. 

1 hear  a new  creak  in  my  neighbor’s 
weather-vane  amid  the  moaning  of  the 
wind ; or  is  it  the  repeated  far-off  blowing 
of  a horn  ? Twice  on  my  going  to  the  door 
the  sound  suddenly  ceases,  to  continue  fit- 
fully on  my  return.  I discover  it  is  pro- 
duced merely  by  the  side-light  above  my 
writing-table.  Do  we  not  thus  frequently 
attribute  ulterior  motives  to  causes  which 
exist  only  in  imagination,  or  whose  source 
originates  with  ourselves  ? Often  is  the 
humming  in  our  own  ear. 

At  times  the  small  black  fly  upon  the  pane 

May  seem  the  black  ox  of  the  distant  plain. 

How  deceptive  is  sound!  The  leaf-cricket’s 
chant  on  hot  summer  nights  seems  to  pro- 
ceed from  the  lawn,  rods  away ; he  is  sing- 
ing in  the  honeysuckle  vine  a few  feet 
overhead.  Not  unfrequently,  when  sitting 
within  doors,  am  I obliged  to  consider 
whether  the  monotonous  humming  I hear 


126 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


is  the  planing-mill  far  remote  or  the  pur- 
ring of  the  cat — my  pet  Maltese,  who  looks 
at  me  with  her  beryl-like  eyes  and  arches 
her  back  to  be  stroked.  But  though  she 
pricks  up  her  ears  when  I scratch  the  un- 
der surface  of  the  table,  she  does  not  long 
mistake  the  counterfeit  for  the  wainscot 
mouse. 

Little  sounds,  like  the  petty  annoyances 
of  life,  are  frequently  the  most  unpleasant. 
A great  annoyance  one  meets  forcibly, 
knowing  it  to  be  a necessary  evil  that  must 
be  put  out  of  the  way.  The  snake  is  killed 
or  evaded ; the  fly  remains  to  harass.  The 
roaring  of  the  gale,  the  downpour  from  the 
sky — sounds  loud  and  violent — are  soothing 
rather  than  the  reverse;  the  rattling  of  a 
window-blind  is  far  more  annoying.  Who 
but  the  man  that  is  filing  it  can  hear  with- 
out a shudder  the  filing  of  a saw,  and  who 
but  a katydid  itself  could  passively  endure 
the  katydid’s  stridulation  ? 

A monotonous  sound,  providing  it  be 
not  a rasping  sound,  the  ear  becomes  ac- 
customed to,  and  misses  when  it  ceases. 
The  ticking  of  a clock,  in  itself  unmusical, 
is,  nevertheless,  soothing  ; you  awaken 
when  it  suddenly  stops.  The  nocturnal 
cricket’s  reiterated  cry  is  a somnolent  sound 
— a voice  of  the  darkness  and  the  dew. 
The  grasshoppers’  jubilant  chorus  sings 
away  the  fleeting  summer  hour,  and  by  its 


My  Study  Windows. 


127 


rising  and  falling  pulsation  marks  the  wax- 
ing and  waning  of  the  year.  Even  when 
immelodious,  most  sounds  of  external  Na- 
ture are  not  irritating.  The  rattling  of  the 
window-pane  exasperates — one  intuitively 
anathematizes  the  carpenter;  the  angry 
creaking  of  the  boughs  has  a meaning,  and 
one  accepts  it  as  a fitting  and  necessary  ac- 
companiment of  the  gale.  The  harsh  bark- 
ing of  a dog  rouses  one  from  slumber;  it  is 
plainly  in  most  cases  an  annoyance  which 
has  no  just  reason  for  existence — the  neigh- 
borhood were  better  off  without  it. 

The  railroad  whistles,  scarcely  farther 
removed  and  far  more  plainly  heard,  are 
not  annoying.  At  once  they  are  accepted 
by  the  mind  as  possessing  a reason.  For 
behind  the  whistle  are  the  vast  driving- 
wheels,  the  passengers,  the  mails,  and  the 
merchandise.  When  I hear  the  locomo- 
tive’s whistle  I feel  the  locomotive’s  power, 
and  the  significance  of  its  strength.  It  is 
the  voice  of  might  and  speed;  the  exultant 
neigh  of  the  great  iron  charger.  It  sounds 
the  hours  for  me.  Day  after  day-— night, 
morning,  and  afternoon — with  the  same  ex- 
actitude, scarcely  a minute  after  the  engi- 
neer has  opened  the  sounding-valve,  do  the 
cars,  arriving  and  departing,  pass  along  the 
opposite  shore  of  the  river.  Far  off  among 
the  distant  valleys  resounds  the  clatter  of 
the  oncoming  train;  now  lost  for  a mo- 


128  The  Story  of  my  House. 


ment,  now  more  distinctly  heard.  A mile 
and  a half  away  on  the  still  night  air  the 
whistle  sounds,  and  the  awakened  echoes 
respond.  I hear  the  roar  through  the  gap 
of  the  hills,  the  crash  across  the  bridge,  the 
reverberating  flight  along  the  bank,  the 
gradual  receding  and  absorption  of  the 
sound.  Nightly,  expectantly,  I listen  for  it, 
and  miss  it  when  the  train  is  late. 

How  much  does  not  the  arrival  of  the 
night  express  signify!  how  much  of  pain 
or  pleasure  to  those  it  bears  ! Friends  who 
have  parted,  and  friends  who  are  waiting; 
news  sad  and  joyous;  regrets  and  hopes; 
hatred  and  love;  laughter  and  tears;  all  the 
emotions  and  passions  harbored  in  human 
hearts  are  present  in  the  rapid  flight  of  the 
train.  The  engineer  at  the  throttle,  the 
fireman  who  supplies  the  fuel — calm,  watch- 
ful, serene  at  their  posts  amid  the  deafen- 
ing roar  and  jar — I think  of  them  when  the 
whistle  sounds,  plunging  onward  through 
the  darkness  and  the  storm. 

What  a fascination  exists  in  the  flight  of 
a train — an  exhilaration  to  those  on  board, 
an  ever-recurring  marvel  to  those  who  wit- 
ness it  pass  by!  A speck  in  the  distance,  it 
momentarily  enlarges  till,  thundering  past, 
it  instantly  recedes,  as  swiftly  lost  as  it  was 
swift  to  appear.  Onward  it  flies,  annihi- 
lating space,  outspeeding  time,  flinging  the 
mile-posts  behind,  bearing  its  burden  to 


My  Study  Windows. 


129 


remote  destinations.  A moment  it  pauses 
to  slake  its  thirst,  or  to  deposit  a portion  of 
its  burden,  replacing  it  with  fresh  freight  in 
waiting.  Still  onward  it  flies,  linking  vil- 
lages and  towns,  spanning  streams,  con- 
necting valleys,  tunneling  hills,  joining 
States.  Ever  the  crash  and  the  roar,  the 
great  trail  of  smoke  and  steam,  the  en- 
gineer at  the  throttle — calm,  watchful,  se- 
rene— plunging  through  the  darkness  and 
the  storm  ! This  the  whistle  means  for 
me. 

Instantly  I detect  the  whistles  of  the  dif- 
ferent roads,  some  more  musical,  some 
more  acute,  some  deeper,  more  sonorous 
in  tone.  Varying  in  resonance  according 
to  the  state  of  the  atmosphere,  they  apprise 
me  of  the  temperature  without,  like  the 
audible  vibration  of  the  rails  themselves 
when  passed  over  by  the  cars.  Clear  and 
musical  in  the  early  summer  mornings,  dur- 
ing cold  weather  they  are  more  sibilant  and 
piercing.  They  are  a weather-vane  to  the 
ear,  blown  by  heat  or  cold,  responsive  to 
the  moisture  or  the  dryness  of  the  air.  I 
observe  similar  acoustic  effects  in  the  tones 
of  the  distant  bells.  So  that  I may  often 
prognosticate  the  weather  as  surely  by  ex- 
ternal sounds  as  by  the  shifting  barometer 
of  the  hills. 

Even  through  my  windows  I like  to 
analyze  the  sentiment  of  animate  sounds. 


130 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


‘‘The  nature  of  Sounds  in  general,”  re- 
marks the  author  of  Sylva  Sylvarum,  “hath 
been  imperfectly  observed;  it  is  one  of  the 
subtellest  Peeces  of  Nature.”  During  a 
ramble  through  the  woods  and  fields  I am 
impressed  by  the  various  emotions  con- 
veyed by  bird  voices  alone.  Through 
them  the  woods  and  fields  acquire  an 
added  meaning;  they  are  the  interpreters  of 
Nature.  Thus,  the  voice  of  the  jay  is  a 
signal  to  inform  his  companions  of  danger; 
the  scream  of  the  hawk,  a note  of  menace 
to  intimidate  his  prey  and  cause  it  to  reveal 
its  whereabouts.  The  woodpecker’s  tap  is 
a sound  of  industry.  The  mourning-dove’s 
notes  express  sorrow;  the  hermit-thrush’s, 
ecstasy;  the  veery’s,  solitude;  the  white- 
throated  sparrow’s,  content.  The  voices 
of  the  bluebird  and  song-sparrow  are 
sounds  of  welcome,  an  exordium  of  spring. 
The  plaintive  whistle  of  the  wood-pewee, 
the  liquid  warble  of  the  purple  finch,  and 
the  refrain  of  many  a companion  songster, 
it  would  require  the  fine  ear  and  fancy  of 
the  poet  to  interpret  aright.  Perhaps  Fred- 
erick Tennyson  well  defines  the  sentiment 
they  express  in  his  melodious  rendering  of 
the  blackbird’s  song: 

The  blackbird  sings  along  the  sunny  breeze 
His  ancient  song  of  leaves  and  summer  boon; 

Rich  breath  of  hayfields  streams  through  whispering 
trees; 


My  Study  Windows. 


131 


And  birds  of  morning  trim  their  bustling  wings, 

And  listen  fondly,  while  the  blackbird  sings. 

And  how  deliciously  one  of  the  sweet  old 
Swabian  singers  has  also  voiced  the  black- 
bird of  Europe,  and  interpreted  his  rippling 
strain : 

Vog’le  im  Tannenwald  pfeifet  so  hell — 

Pfeifet  de  Wald  aus  und  ein,  wo  wird  mein  Schatzle 
sein  ? 

Vog’le  im  Tannenwald  pfeifet  so  hell. 

Songster  in  pine-wood  whistleth  so  clear — 
Whistleth  the  wood  out  and  in,  where  hath  my  sweet- 
heart been  ? 

Songster  in  pine-wood  whistleth  so  clear. 

Is  it  a Minnesinger  ? I wonder;  for  I can  not 
place  the  poet  who  hymned  the  feathered 
minstrel  so  sweetly.  My  German  friend 
the  professor,  who  improvises  in  music  as 
deftly  as  Heine  improvised  in  verse,  and  to 
whom  I repeated  the  lines  the  other  day, 
was  struck  anew  by  their  haunting  melody. 
Seating  himself  at  the  piano,  he  immediately 
set  them  to  this  exquisite  accompaniment. 
The  music  has  been  ringing  in  my  ears  ever 
since — a very  echo  of  the  songster,  rising 
clear  and  jubilant  from  the  shade  of  the 
wood.  The  words  have  been  set  to  music 
before,  a version  being  included  in  that  me- 
lodious collection  of  national,  student,  and 
hunting  songs  entitled  Deutscher  Lieder- 
schatz.  But  this  is  commonplace  com- 
9 


132 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


pared  to  the  rendition  of  my  German  friend. 
Try  it  those  of  you  who  have  a voice  to  try; 
or  let  your  sweetheart  try  it  for  you.  You 
will  then  appreciate  the  consummate  art  of 
the  music — the  ascending  scale  of  the  sec- 
ond bar  felicitously  phrasing  the  whistle  of 
the  bird,  and  the  falling  inflection  of  the 
third  happily  portraying  the  cool,  shadowy 
depths  of  the  wood.  And  how  like  a sil- 
very bird  note  of  June  the  upper  “g”  in 
the  seventeenth  bar  sounds  the  close  of  the 
refrain  ! 


Allegro  mf. 


H.  Ganzel. 


-m-rf*- 


iLL 


Vog  - le  im  Tan-nen-wald  pfei  - fet  so  hell, 
Song-ster  in  pine  - wood  whis-tleth  so  clear, 


My  Study  Windows. 


'33 


Wo  wird  mein  Schatzle  sein,  wo  wird  es  sein  ? 
Where  hath  my  sweetheart  been, where  hath  she  been  ? 


Wo  wird  mein  Schatzle  sein,  wo  wird  es  sein  ? 
Where  hath  my  sweetheart  been,  where  hath  she  been  ? 


No  poet  or  prosatist,  however,  comes 
so  near  to  the  bird  as  the  great  prose-poet 
of  the  Wiltshire  Downs: 

“The  bird  upon  the  tree  utters  the 
meaning  of  the  wind — a voice  of  the  grass 
and  wild-flower,  words  of  the  green  leaf; 
they  speak  through  that  slender  tone. 
Sweetness  of  dew  and  rifts  of  sunshine,  the 
dark  hawthorn  touched  with  breadths  of 
open  bud,  the  odor  of  the  air,  the  color  of 
the  daffodil — all  that  is  delicious  and  be- 
loved of  spring-time  are  expressed  in  his 
song.  Genius  is  nature,  and  his  lay,  like 
the  sap  in  the  bough  from  which  he  sings, 
rises  without  thought.  Nor  is  it  necessary 
that  it  should  be  a song;  a few  short  notes 
in  the  sharp  spring  morning  are  sufficient 
to  stir  the  heart.  But  yesterday  the  least  of 
them  all  came  to  a bough  by  my  window, 
and  in  his  call  I heard  the  sweet-brier  wind 
rushing  over  the  young  grass.”  * 

Just  what  emotion  the  caw  of  the  crow 
conveys  I am  at  a loss  to  determine,  unless 


* Richard  Jefferies.  Field  and  Hedgerow. 


My  Study  Windows. 


U5 


it  be  self-complacency — -a  harsh  way  of  ex- 
pressing it,  it  would  seem.  His  notes 
sound  more  like  anger;  and  in  the  woods 
he  certainly  does  quarrel  with  the  owls,  the 
song-birds,  and  his  own  kindred.  But  his 
apparent  anger  may  be  only  feigned,  and 
his  voice  belie  his  real  character.  Assur- 
edly, there  was  never  a more  selPcompla- 
cent  tread  than  the  crow’s  on  a grain  field. 
The  farmer  and  the  scarecrow  at  once  be- 
come secondary  to  him,  and  pilfering 
becomes  almost  a virtue,  he  pilfers  with 
such  grace.  His  tread  is  as  majestic  as  the 
soaring  of  the  hawk,  and  though  black  as 
night  and  evil,  his  plumage  glistens  as 
brightly  as  light  and  purity.  He  seems  a 
true  autochthon  of  the  soil.  It  is  much  in 
the  way  things  are  done,  after  all;  boldness 
often  passes  for  innocence,  and  self-confi- 
dence begets  security. 

Gladness,  serene  contentment,  is  most 
strongly  expressed  to  me  by  the  bobolink, 
the  “ okalee  ” of  the  starling,  and  the  singu- 
lar medley  of  the  catbird.  To  be  sure,  the 
catbird  frequently  justifies  his  name,  and  is 
anything  but  an  agreeable  songster ; but  to 
make  amends  for  his  introductory  discords 
he  frequently  gives  us  a delightful  palinode. 
Plaintiveness,  sadness  over  the  departed 
summer,  is  conveyed  by  the  blackbird’s 
warble  fluted  over  fields  of  golden-rod ; it 
is  expressed  in  the  trembling  notes  of  the 


1 36  The  Story  of  my  House. 


yellow-bird,  as  he  scatters  the  thistle’s  floss 
to  the  winds. 

If  we  would  carefully  analyze  the  speech 
of  external  Nature,  I doubt  not  we  could 
trace  some  well-defined  sentiment  in  nearly 
all  animate  sounds ; assuredly  in  very  many  of 
the  voices  of  birds,  animals,  and  insects.  For 
Nature’s  moods  and  tenses  are  conveyed  as 
strongly  through  the  tympanum  of  the  ear 
as  through  the  retina  of  the  eye.  Their  cor- 
rect interpretation  depends  upon  our  inner 
sight  and  hearing.  I am  not  sure  that  in 
man’s  relation  to  Nature  the  sense  of  hear- 
ing does  not  contribute  almost  as  much  en- 
joyment as  the  sense  of  seeing.  Certainly, 
Nature  would  seem  but  half  complete  with- 
out her  characteristic  voices.  Think  of  her 
wrapped  in  the  winding-sheet  of  eternal 
silence,  a mere  mummy,  with  no  song  of 
bird  or  whisper  of  wind  to  impart  anima- 
tion to  her  scenes.  Color  and  form  are 
but  half  the  landscape;  it  is  sound  that 
gives  it  life,  and  renders  it  companionable. 
What  is  winter,  in  one  sense,  but  absence 
of  sound,  not  merely  the  absence  of  bird 
and  insect  voices,  but  the  rustling  of  leaves 
and  grasses,  the  murmur  of  waters,  the  life 
and  movement  of  growing  vegetation  ! 

Are  not  the  first  signs  of  spring  con- 
veyed through  sound  ? Ere  yet  a song- 
bird can  find  an  utterance,  or  grass-blade 
impart  a sense  of  resurrected  life  I hear  the 


My  Study  Windows . 


U7 


cracking  of  the  ice  and  the  gurgling  of  the 
frost-freed  rills.  The  crow  announces  the 
change  before  the  snowdrop  comes,  and  the 
wild  geese  proclaim  it  from  the  sky  before 
the  sallows  invite  the  precocious  bee.  No 
doubt  the  bee  is  already  waiting  for  the 
flower,  and  winnows  it  into  bloom ; for  no 
sooner  is  the  corolla  ready  to  expand  than  I 
hear  his  murmurous  wings.  High  in  the 
willow  catkins ; low  down  in  the  horn  of  the 
skunk-cabbage ; bending  the  yellow  bloom 
of  the  first  dog-tooth  violet,  his  hum  of  in- 
dustry is  heard.  The  bee  is  perhaps  the  first 
constant  spring  musician,  though  his  is  not 
the  earliest  vernal  voice.  The  pushing  daffo- 
dils of  the  perennial  flower-border  speak  to 
me  of  spring,  the  choir  of  the  toads  and  hy- 
lodes  announces  it  even  more  emphatically. 

How  we  should  miss  the  voice  of  Chant- 
icleer were  the  domestic  fowl  to  become 
silent ! It  never  occurred  to  me  how  im- 
portant a role  he  plays  until  the  author  of 
The  Bohemians  of  the  Latin  Quarter  makes 
him  serve  as  a matutinal  alarm  to  Schau- 
nard  in  lieu  ot  the  time-piece  he  has 
pawned.  And  Herrick,  too,  in  His  Grange, 
or  Private  Wealth,  has  the  domestic  fowl 
serve  a similar  purpose: 

Though  clock 

To  tell  how  night  draws  hence,  I’ve  none, 

A cock 

1 have  to  sing  how  day  draws  on. 


1 38  The  Story  of  my  House. 


We  might  rise  and  retire,  indeed,  with  the 
clock  of  the  cock,  and  at  all  times  of  day 
and  at  all  seasons  we  would  sadly  miss  his 
voice  were  he  subject  to  laryngeal  troubles. 
It  is  a cheery  and  companionable  sound, 
the  absence  of  which  would  cause  an  ap- 
preciable void.  Many  sounds  not  strictly 
belonging  to  outward  Nature  become  com- 
plementary to  her  through  familiarity,  or 
through  the  surroundings  amid  which  they 
are  heard.  Thus  the  hills  and  valleys 
speak  through  the  roar  of  the  railroad  train, 
and  the  harvest  fields  find  a fitting  tongue 
in  the  thrashing  machine.  A domestic  voice 
rather  than  a voice  of  Nature,  the  cock’s 
crow  is,  notwithstanding  this,  associated 
with  Nature  and  rural  scenes.  It  is  more  a 
voice  of  the  country  and  a pulsation  of  the 
rural  landscape  than  an  expression  of  urban 
surroundings.  The  city  hems  it  in;  the 
country  expands  it.  Orpheus  might  pause 
to  listen  to  it  when  sounded  from  an  autumnal 
upland,  it  is  so  resonant  and  sonorous.  So 
much  does  the  scene,  or  the  conditions 
amid  which  sounds  are  uttered,  affect  the 
sounds  themselves. 

As  a purely  wild  sound  of  Nature — the 
Nature  of  our  own  woods  and  fields — the 
cry  of  the  owl  is,  perhaps,  unrivaled.  The 
bark  of  the  fox  has  some  analogy  to  it  in 
point  of  wildness,  except  that  his  voice  is 
always  further  removed.  I hear  it  on 


My  Study  Windows. 


39 


moonlight  winter  nights  following  the  un- 
dulations of  the  wooded  hills — a short  sharp 
bark  thrice  repeated  at  rather  prolonged  in- 
tervals. It  is  an  eerie  sound,  the  cry  of 
the  vulpine  freebooter,  ranging  his  native 
woods  through  the  frosty  winter  nights.  I 
never  look  up  at  the  fox’s  pelt  slung  across 
the  portiere-vod  in  the  smoking-room  with- 
out a feeling  of  regret  for  the  lissom  life  that 
was  slain.  The  grand  brush  that  steadied 
him  in  his  flight;  the  sharp  pointed  nose, 
once  alive  to  every  atom  of  the  atmosphere; 
the  fine  soft  fur,  beautiful  still  in  death, 
appeal  mutely  to  me  for  a life  wantonly 
sacrificed.  I care  not  how  many  grouse 
and  ground-birds  may  have  fallen  victims  to 
his  cunning— they  were  his  rightful  prey, 
the  spoil  of  his  domain. 

The  drumming  of  the  ruffed-grouse  im- 
parts a sense  of  life  and  companionship  to 
the  woods  such  as  few  other  sounds  con- 
vey. Bonasa  umbella  ! there  is  a whir  of 
vigor  in  his  very  name.  Every  one  should 
be  born  a sportsman  to  appreciate  his  glori- 
ous crescendo ; hunting  is  given  to  man  of 
the  gods,  Xenophon  rightly  said.  The 
grouse  is  the  woodland  guide,  the  alcaid 
who  holds  the  keys  to  all  its  guarded  re- 
cesses, the  courier  who  knows  every  lane 
and  passage  that  thread  the  forest  depths. 
Accept  his  invitation,  and  you  are  conducted 
into  hidden  nooks,  and  presented  glimpses 


140 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


of  sylvan  beauty  of  whose  existence  you 
would  otherwise  never  have  dreamed.  His 
roll-call  is  a stimulus  to  exercise,  an  excuse 
to  explore  the  covers.  Onward  and  on- 
ward and  still  onward  he  leads;  now  amid 
a sun-flecked  vista  of  tree-trunks,  now 
through  a thicket  of  intertwining  saplings, 
now  to  a woodland  antechamber  frescoed 
with  October  colors,  now  up  some  lofty 
hillside  overlooking  the  empurpled  valley. 
A taste  of  the  bitter  he  also  mixes  with  the 
sweet,  as  when  flushed  for  the  third  or 
fourth  time,  weary  of  pursuit,  he  leads  to 
an  almost  impenetrable  thicket  of  bramble, 
perchance  to  skim  off  unseen  on  hearing 
your  approach,  or  to  dive  deep  down  into  a 
precipitous  glen,  only  to  mislead  by  sud- 
denly wheeling  up  the  hillside  in  a long 
deceptive  flight.  Most  noticeably  in  the 
spring,  and  frequently  in  the  autumn,  and 
on  tempered  winter  days  do  I hear  the  mu- 
sic of  his  wings,  far  away  in  some  seques- 
tered glade,  beating  a sylvan  tattoo — most 
picturesque  of  all  woodland  sounds ; it  is  as 
if  the  woods  themselves  were  speaking. 

The  squirrel’s  bark  is  emphatically  a syl- 
van expression.  He  knows  its  effect  upon 
the  listener,  and  selects  a bland,  sunshiny 
day  when  he  may  be  distinctly  heard.  But 
only  at  a safe  distance,  for  has  not  the  fox 
taught  him  caution,  and  the  grouse  the 
wile  of  placing  a tree-trunk  between  him- 


My  Study  Windows . 


141 


self  and  the  double  barrel  ? Were  I to 
analyze  the  sentiment  of  the  squirrel’s  bark, 
I should  term  it  an  utterance  of  derision. 
Not  altogether  derision,  however;  for  be- 
sides a snarling  tone,  it  has  a perceptible 
sound  of  cracking  and  crunching,  as  of  nuts 
and  acorns  being  husked  and  split  by  a ro- 
dent’s tooth. 

An  eery  cry  is  the  “ssh-p!  ssh-p!”  of 
the  twisting  snipe — two  fifths  a whistle, 
two  fifths  a cry,  while  to  the  nervous 
sportsman  the  other  fifth  is  a jeer.  A gut- 
tural cry,  a strange  raucous  cry,  a very 
voice  of  the  treacherous  ooze  and  the  rus- 
tling sedge.  It  can  not  be  put  into  words, 
and  only  the  snipe  himself  can  sound  it. 
Most  voices  of  the  marsh  are  characteristic ; 
it  has  its  distinctive  gamut  of  sound.  The 
cheerful  music  of  the  woodlands  is  want- 
ing; its  speech  is  pitched  in  a graver  key, 
in  keeping  with  its  solitary  haunts  where 
Syrinx  ever  murmurs  through  her  murmur- 
ing reeds.  How  expressive  its  many- 
sounding  tongues — the  boom  of  the  bit- 
tern, the  harsh  quack  of  the  heron,  the 
scream  of  hawk  and  kildeer,  the  multitudi- 
nous calls  of  water  birds — 

cries  that  might 

Be  echoes  of  a water-spirit’s  song. 

All  through  the  spring  and  autumn  nights 
countless  wings  are  cleaving  the  upper  air. 


142 


The  Story  of  my  House . 


bearing  the  hurrying  voyagers  in  search  of 
distant  climes — flocks  of  plover  and  wood- 
cock, skeins  of  snipe  and  shore -birds, 
throngs  of  ducks  and  geese,  voicing  their 
way  through  the  darkness,  league  after 
league,  hour  after  hour  on  their  long  jour- 
ney of  migration. 

I look  for  drought  and  heat  when  the 
cicada  shrills.  The  rhythm  of  the  cricket’s 
creak  tells  me  if  the  night  be  hot  or  cold. 
I see  the  gathering  rain-clouds  when  the 
tree-toad  croaks  and  the  hair-bird  trills. 
The  bluebird  warbles,  “it  is  spring”;  a 
thousand  throats  proclaim  the  summer. 
Sounds  from  the  woods,  sounds  from  the 
waters,  sounds  from  the  fields,  sounds  from 
the  air!  The  infinite  beauty  of  sound!  Are 
not  Nature’s  voices  one  of  her  most  endear- 
ing charms  ? 

How  the  gas-burner  and  window-pane 
have  led  me  to  digress ! But  even  from  my 
comfortable  room  it  is  sometimes  pleasant 
to  look  out  beyond  the  storm  and  bask  in 
the  luminousness  of  the  primrose  band. 


VIII. 

MY  INDOOR  GARDEN. 

Tell,  if  thou  canst,  and  truly,  whence  doth  come 
This  camphire,  storax,  spikenard,  galbanum ; 

These  musks,  these  ambers,  and  those  other  smells 
Sweet  as  the  vestry  of  the  oracles. 

Hesperides. 


ontrasted  with  the  bleakness 
without,  the  greenhouses  and 
conservatory  possess  an  addition- 
al charm.  Within  their  walls  of 
glass  reigns  a luxuriance  of  leaf 
and  bloom.  Like  the  garden,  however,  the 
greenhouse  will  not  care  for  itself.  Many 
of  the  requirements  necessary  out  of  doors 
I find  imperative  within.  And  yet  cultiva- 
tion is  on  an  entirely  different  scale,  a mere 
pot  of  earth  taking  the  place  of  barrowsful 
under  out-of-door  culture.  In  the  garden 
I simply  place  a plant  at  the  requisite  depth 
and  in  the  proper  exposure  and  soil;  in  the 
greenhouse  a finer  discrimination  is  called 
for. 

This  small  plant,  bulb,  or  fern  may  not 


144 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


be  plunged  indiscriminately  into  any  recep- 
tacle. I must  measure  the  size  and  require- 
ments of  the  plant;  and  not  only  place  it  in 
congenial  soil,  light  or  shade,  but  measure 
its  needs  with  regard  to  the  size  of  its  pro- 
spective domicile.  My  small  plants  will 
fail  with  too  much  nourishment,  my  large 
plants  pine  with  too  little.  Some  will  not 
thrive  in  soil  at  all,  but  must  be  cultivated 
on  a block  of  wood,  sustaining  themselves 
merely  on  air  and  moisture.  In  the  garden 
each  plant  draws  from  the  largess  of  the 
earth  just  what  properties  it  needs  for 
growth  and  development,  and  the  deeper 
the  surface  soil  the  better  the  plant  will 
thrive.  From  some  standpoints  my  green- 
houses possess  an  advantage  over  my  gar- 
den; in  another  sense  the  garden  is  more 
satisfactory.  The  one  is  artificial,  the  other 
natural;  but  the  greenhouse  is,  possibly, 
more  easily  controlled.  With  proper  care 
and  intelligence  I can  count  upon  certain 
fixed  results.  I am  not  dependent  upon 
the  uncertain  watering-pot  of  the  sky,  and 
have  nothing  to  fear  from  frost  or  violent 
winds.  But  I must  needs  exert  a keener 
watchfulness  over  my  charges;  Nature  is 
no  longer  the  warder.  Just  so  much  heat, 
so  much  air,  so  much  sun,  so  much  moist- 
ure they  must  have.  For  tender  exotics, 
born  of  a milder  clime,  are  among  my  nurs- 
lings. 


My  Indoor  Garden. 


M5 


My  orchids,  for  instance.  Some  occur 
naturally  on  damp  rocks  in  a cool  atmos- 
phere ; others  on  trees  in  dense  tropical 
forests ; still  others  on  high  elevations 
where  they  receive  much  sunlight.  Shade 
or  coolness,  which  certain  species  demand, 
are  injurious  to  others  which  flourish  in 
warmth  and  sunshine.  The  different  habi- 
tats of  the  species,  therefore,  must  be  care- 
fully studied,  and  the  conditions  under 
which  they  thrive  in  nature  imitated  as  far 
as  possible  under  glass.  “ A juggler,”  says 
the  accomplished  curator  of  the  Trinity  Col- 
lege Botanic  Gardens,  “not  unfrequently 
keeps  four  balls  flying  over  his  head  with 
one  hand,  and  the  successful  orchid-grower 
has  to  deal  quite  as  closely  with  heat,  air, 
light,  and  moisture.”  My  greenhouse,  ac- 
cordingly, calls  for  its  parlor  and  bath-room, 
its  smoking-room  and  refrigerator. 

I miss  the  breadth  and  sunlight  of  the 
garden ; I gain  immunity  from  the  caprice 
of  the  elements.  My  glass  house  bridges 
over  the  dreary  interval  between  the  last 
wind-flower  of  autumn  and  the  first  prim- 
rose of  spring.  If  I can  not  go  to  the  tropics, 
if  I can  not  have  the  summer,  I can  at  least 
recall  the  one  and  counterfeit  the  other. 
Could  I control  the  sunlight  and  inclose  a 
sufficient  space,  1 should  scarcely  miss  my 
hardy  flower  borders. 

In  the  greenhouse  I have  my  charges 


146  The  Story  of  my  House. 


nearer  my  eye;  I can  watch  their  develop- 
ment closer.  Many  of  the  insect  pests  that  in- 
fest the  garden  come  to  prey  upon  the  plants 
indoors.  The  same  warfare  I wage  with- 
out, I must  wage  within.  Care  and  atten- 
tion are  ever  the  price  of  the  flower.  The 
insects  continue  to  multiply.  They  develop 
new  races  and  people  new  countries.  No 
sooner  does  one  scourge  become  extinct 
than  a dozen  others  take  its  place.  For  the 
weevil  we  have  the  army-worm,  the  po- 
tato-bug, the  apple-tree  borer,  the  codling- 
moth.  I no  sooner  administer  a soporific  to 
the  red  spider  than  the  aphides  are  at  work, 
and  these  are  scarcely  subjugated  ere  the 
mealy-bug  appears.  Cockroaches  bite  the  or- 
chid roots,  mice  nibble  the  young  shoots  of 
the  carnations.  Mildew’  and  blight  likewise 
destroy,  and  snails  emerge  from  unsuspected 
places  to  prey  upon  the  succulent  leaves. 

My  greenhouse  gives  me  a bog-garden 
which  the  altitude  of  the  grounds  precludes 
without.  My  tank  is  a miniature  bayou,  a 
cage  for  aquatics.  It  is  always  pleasant  to 
watch  the  growth  of  water  plants,  they 
seem  so  appreciative  of  their  bath ; the  very 
fact  of  their  growing  from  the  water  gives 
them  a distinct  individuality.  These  clumps 
of  Egyptian  papyrus  and  smaller  variegated 
Cyperus,  emerging  from  the  ooze,  are  as 
beautiful  as  flowers.  One  of  the  easiest  of 
aquatics  to  grow,  the  papyrus,  or  great 


My  Indoor  Garden. 


*47 


paper-reed,  throws  out  strong  runners  be- 
neath the  water,  forming  dense  tufts  of  tall 
culms,  crowned  with  large  handsome  um- 
bellate panicles ; indeed,  it  spreads  so  rap- 
idly that  it  requires  to  be  kept  vigorously  in 
check.  The  handsome  variegated  Cyperus 
has  a tendency  to  revert  to  the  type,  but 
this  may  be  prevented  by  cutting  out  the 
green  shoots  that  appear. 

The  great  water-lilies,  too— the  Nymph- 
ceas  and  Nelumbiums — are  among  the  most 
accommodating  plants  for  water  culture,  as 
they  are  unquestionably  among  the  most 
beautiful  of  flowers.  Equally  handsome 
and  fragrant,  many  of  the  species  rival  the 
terrestrial  lilies,  and  are  far  less  fastidious. 
Few,  if  any,  of  the  species  are  more  beauti- 
ful than  the  common  water-lily  ( Nymphcea 
odorata),  the  white  and  perfumed  cup  that 
floats  upon  our  ponds  and  sluggish  streams. 
From  my  tank  I may  pluck  its  blossom 
without  being  mired,  though  I miss  the 
kingfisher’s  clarion  and  the  sheen  of  the 
dragon-fly’s  wings  with  which  I associate 
it  in  Nature.  I miss  also  the  flapping  of  its 
pads  when  touched  by  the  wind,  showing 
the  red  under  sides  of  the  shields,  lovely  as 
the  flash  of  trout  that  lurk  beneath.  Long 
must  I search  for  a more  delicious  odor  than 
that  contained  within  its  waxen  folds.  Be- 
gotten of  the  ooze,  a stem  shoots  upward 
to  the  sun  and  air  to  unfold  its  chalice  on 
10 


148  The  Story  of  my  House. 


some  secluded  pool.  The  first  white  water- 
lily,  cradled  on  the  water’s  rippling  breast! 
it  is  the  floral  embodiment  of  summer.  It 
falls  upon  the  sight  like  the  tinkle  of  a wood- 
land rill  upon  the  ear,  imparting  its  harmony 
to  the  mind,  a thing  to  be  carried  away  and 
perfume  the  memory.  I would  willingly 
exchange  the  Zanzibar  species  for  it,  if 
thereby  I might  cause  the  white  lily  to  bloom 
in  winter. 

For  winter  blossoming  the  former  are 
invaluable  aquatics,  with  pink-purple  and 
blue  flowers  respectively,  opening  during 
daylight.  The  deliciously  scented  pink- 
purple  variety  (N.  Zan^ibarensis  rosea), 
almost  an  evergreen  aquatic,  is  the  strong- 
est grower,  its  flat  leaves  also  being  large 
and  of  great  substance.  The  night-bloom- 
ing Nelumbiums , N.  Devoniensis,  rubra, 
and  dentata,  with  pink,  red,  and  white 
flowers  respectively,  are  the  best  of  their 
division.  N.  speciosum,  the  sacred  lotus 
of  the  Nile,  is  a beautiful  summer-flower- 
ing species  with  immense  pink  flowers;  N. 
luteum  is  the  tall-growing  yellow  water- 
lily,  its  blossoms  seven  to  ten  inches  in 
diameter.  Balzac,  in  Le  Lis  dans  la  Val- 
lee,  associates  the  lotus  with  the  old  Hel- 
lenic sentiment,  except  that  instead  of  the 
word  country  he  substitutes  love : 

Cueillons  la  fleur  du  Nenuphar 

Qui  fait  oublier  les  amours, 


My  Indoor  Garden. 


149 


the  Nenuphar  being  the  lotus  of  France, 
Nymphcea  alba  major.  And  those  of  us 
who  do  not  know  the  lotus  of  the  classics 
are  all  familiar  with  the  lotus  of  Tennyson, 
“that  enchanted  stem”  which  whosoever 
did  receive  and  taste,  forthwith  obtained 
rest  and  dreamful  ease. 

There  exists  some  doubt,  however,  as 
to  which  lotus  the  old  Greeks  really  re- 
ferred to.  The  question,  What  was  “lo- 
tus ” ? has  been  discussed  intermittently  for 
at  least  two  thousand  years.  We  must 
bear  in  mind  that  “lotus”  was  a term  ap- 
plied by  the  Greeks  to  several  plants  or 
trees.  The  Latin  poets,  and  Pliny  very 
likely,  used  the  term  more  vaguely  still,  not 
being  botanists  as  were  some  of  the  Greeks. 
For  there  is  also  the  date-plum  ( Diospyrus 
lotus),  a deciduous  tree  native  of  the  coasts 
of  the  Caspian  Sea,  and  cultivated  and 
naturalized  in  Southern  Europe,  the  fruit  of 
which  is  edible.  This  has  been  held  by 
some  to  be  the  lotus  of  the  Lotophagi,  or 
lotus-eaters.  Besides,  there  is  the  prickly 
lotus  shrub  or  jujube  tree  (Zi^yphus  lotus), 
indigenous  to  the  Libyan  district  and  por- 
tions of  Asia,  to  the  sweet  and  odorous 
fruit  of  which  has  been  equally  ascribed  the 
power  of  causing  one  to  forget  one’s  home. 
It  is  still  eaten  by  the  natives,  and  a wine 
or  mead  is  extracted  from  its  juice.  The 
term  lotus  was  also  applied  to  several  spe- 


>50 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


cies  of  water-lily — the  Egyptian  water-lily 
(Nymphcza  lotus),  the  blue  water-lily  (Tv. 
ccerulea),  and  more  particularly  to  the  Ne- 
lumhium  of  the  Nile  ( Nelumbium  speciosum). 
The  Nelumbium  is  a native  both  of  India 
and  Egypt,  though  almost  extinct  in  the 
latter  country  now;  and  in  the  ancient  Hin- 
doo and  Egyptian  mythological  representa- 
tions of  Nature,  as  is  well  known,  it  was 
the  emblem  of  the  great  generative  and 
conceptive  powers  of  the  world,  serving  as 
the  head-dress  of  the  Sphinxes  and  the  or- 
nament of  Isis.  It  was  known,  moreover, 
as  the  Egyptian  bean,  on  account  of  its 
fruit,  the  cells  of  which  contained  a kind  of 
bean  employed  as  an  article  of  food.  In- 
digenous to  China  as  well,  the  roots  are  still 
served  there  in  summer  with  ice,  and  laid 
up  with  vinegar  and  salt  for  winter.  Both 
the  fruit  and  the  root  of  Nymphcea  lotus 
were  likewise  eaten  by  the  ancient  Egyp- 
tians ; while  Horus,  the  divine  child  who 
personified  the  rising  sun,  is  always  repre- 
sented in  hieroglyphics  as  emerging  from  a 
water-lotus  bud. 

In  the  East,  a belief  in  a divinity  residing 
in  the  lotus  has  existed  from  the  most  an- 
cient times,  worship  of  this  divinity  of  the 
lotus  being  the  dominant  religion  in  Thibet 
at  the  present  day.  The  daily  and  hourly 
prayer,  Wilson  states  in  the  Abode  of  Snow, 
is  still,  ‘ ‘ Om  mani  padme,  haun,”  or  literal- 


My  Indoor  Garden. 


151 


ly  rendered,  ‘ ‘ O God ! the  jewel  in  the  lotus. 
Amen.”  In  Cashmere  the  roots  of  the  wa- 
ter-lotus are  pulled  up  from  the  mire  and 
employed  as  an  article  of  diet.  The  root  is 
sweet,  and  was  formerly  used  for  making 
an  intoxicating  beverage,  as  the  sap  of  the 
palm  is  still  employed  in  some  localities. 
In  like  manner  the  roots  of  the  yellow  lotus 
were  used  by  the  American  aborigines  as 
an  article  of  diet,  Nuttall  recording  that, 
boiled  when  fully  ripe,  they  become  as 
farinaceous,  agreeable,  and  wholesome  as 
the  potato. 

Research  tends  to  show  that  it  is  the  Zi- 
T^yphus  rather  than  any  of  the  other  species 
of  lotus  to  which  Homer  and  Theophrastus 
ascribed  the  power  of  causing  forgetfulness. 
Theophrastus  and  Dioscorides,  Greek  botan- 
ists, both  describe  different  kinds  of  lotus, 
but  their  descriptions  are  not  always  trust- 
worthy. Homer  mentions  yet  another 
lotus,  supposed  to  be  Melilotus  officinalis , 
the  yellow  variety  of  sweet  clover  common 
to  this  country  where  it  has  become  nat- 
uralized from  Europe.  It  was  this  plant 
which  he  describes  as  nourishing  the  steeds 
of  Achilles.  Authorities  differ  so  greatly, 
however,  that  it  is  difficult  to  decide  with 
absolute  certainty  which  species  of  lotus  is 
really  the  fabled  plant  of  the  Greeks,  though 
the  weight  of  opinion  would  point  to  the 
Zi^yphus  as  against  the  Diospyrus  and 


152 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


especially  the  Nelumbium.  The  poetical 
folk-lore  of  plants  must  not  be  expected  to 
be  literally  true.  Even  the  observant  Greek, 
Aristotle,  has  many  absurdities  about  plants. 
So  has  Theophrastus,  but  Pliny  is  full  of  the 
most  ridiculous  superstitions,  which  he  re- 
lates with  all  the  seriousness  of  a firm  be- 
liever in  them. 

In  attempting  to  place  many  plants  and 
flowers  of  the  ancient  classic  poets  there  is, 
therefore,  always  more  or  less  difficulty  and 
uncertainty.  To  identify  the  plants  men- 
tioned, without  studying  them  in  the  coun- 
try where  those  who  wrote  about  them 
lived,  is  fruitless  when  there  is  such  a great 
difference  of  opinion  as  to  what  the  ancient 
Latin  poets  mean  by  “violet”  or  “hya- 
cinth,” or  “narcissus.”  Sibthorp,  who 
was  Professor  of  Botany  at  Oxford,  Eng- 
land, about  eighty  years  ago  and  who  was 
a fine  classical  scholar,  went  to  live  three 
years  in  Greece  for  the  purpose  of  identify- 
ing the  Greek  flowers  and  plants  mentioned 
by  the  classics.  He  returned  with  the  con- 
clusion that  it  is  impossible  to  do  it  satis- 
factorily and  he  was  quite  certain,  though 
the  Greek  language  still  remains  in  Greece 
very  slightly  changed,  that  what  the  modern 
Greeks  call  a “hellebore”  or  a “hyacinth” 
is  different  from  the  flowers  that  were 
called  by  these  names  two  thousand  years 
ago. 


My  Indoor  Garden. 


'53 


Herodotus  (Book  iv,  p.  177)  places  the 
geographical  range  of  the  lotus-eaters  from 
the  recess  of  the  Gulf  of  Cabes  eastward  to 
about  half-way  along  the  coast  of  Tripoli, 
which  would  correspond  with  Homer’s  ac- 
count. The  former  describes  the  natives  as 
living  “by  eating  the  fruit  of  the  lotus — 
the  fruit  about  the  size  of  the  Pistacia  nut, 
and  in  sweetness  like  the  fruit  of  the  date. 
From  this  fruit  the  lotus-eaters  made  their 
wine.”  What  Homer  says  regarding  the 
lotus  is  this  (Odyssey,  Book  ix,  v.  82,  etc.) : 
Ulysses  is  recounting  his  adventures  to  the 
guests  of  the  King  of  Corfu  after  dinner. 
He  relates  how  he  was  on  his  way  home 
from  Troy,  and  was  doubling  Cape  St.  An- 
gelo, when  a storm  from  the  north  met  his 
fleet  and  drove  it  from  its  course.  After 
sailing  southward  for  nine  days,  he  sighted 
land  and  made  for  it,  as  the  fresh-water 
supply  was  exhausted.  The  crews  enjoyed 
the  luxury  of  a meal  on  shore,  and  then  be- 
gan to  wonder  where  they  were.  So 
Ulysses  chose  two  good  men,  adding  a 
herald  with  a flag  of  truce,  a necessary  pre- 
caution in  those  times  when  strangers  were 
enemies,  as  a matter  of  course.  These  men 
were  to  inquire  who  the  inhabitants  of  the 
land  were.  “The  lotus-eaters  received 
them  kindly  and  gave  them  lotus  to  eat. 
As  soon  as  they  eat  the  honey-sweet  fruit 
of  the  lotus  they  would  not  come  back  to 


154 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


bring  me  tidings,  nor  go  away,  but  wished 
to  remain  where  they  were  with  the  lotus- 
eaters,  gathering  and  eating  lotus  and  to 
think  no  more  of  going  home.  They  shed 
tears  when  I dragged  them  back  by  force  to 
the  ships  and  tied  them  by  ropes  to  the 
benches  in  the  hold.  Then  I ordered  the 
rest  of  the  crews  to  go  on  board  at  once, 
for  fear  any  of  them  should  eat  lotus  and 
think  no  more  of  going  home.” 

To  believe  that  the  Homeric  legend  re- 
ferred to  the  fruit  of  the  jujube-tree  does  not 
necessitate  our  believing  that  the  fruit  had 
a sedative  effect  upon  those  who  eat  it. 
Rumors  of  a people  leading  a lazy  and  indo- 
lent life  in  a delightful  climate  and  subsist- 
ing on  the  fruit  of  trees,  and  rumors  that 
sailors  accidentally  landing  there  had  given 
up  the  dangers  and  hard  work  of  a seafar- 
ing life  and  deserted,  would  be  enough  to 
give  the  foundation  of  the  legend.  There 
is  a story  entitled  The  Mutiny  of  the  Boun- 
ty, a true  history,  which  gave  the  founda- 
tion of  Byron’s  tale  The  Island;  and  there 
are  many  points  of  similarity  between  this 
and  Homer’s  brief  tale;  but  Ulysses,  the 
man  of  many  resources,  proved  a better 
match  for  his  mutinous  men  than  did  Cap- 
tain Bligh. 

Tennyson’s  lotus  “laden  with  flower 
and  fruit,”  which  is  specified  as  being 
borne  on  “ branches,”  is  evidently  the  Z/- 


My  Indoor  Garden. 


typhus  or  else  the  Diospyrus ; although 
the  line — 

The  lotus  blows  by  every  winding  creek 

might  lead  one  to  suppose  he  referred  to 
the  Nelnmbium,  were  it  not  for  the  former 
contradictory  line  and  the  fact  that  the  wa- 
ter-lily grows  in  the  water  itself.  At  any 
rate,  sufficient  authority  exists  to  render  it 
certain  that  some  species  of  lotus  yielding 
an  intoxicating  product  was  regarded  sacred 
because  of  an  indwelling  god.  But  what- 
ever species  was  really  referred  to  by  the 
classics  as  the  charmed  nepenthe — whether 
the  fruit  of  the  jujube-tree,  or  merely  a 
fruit  of  the  fabled  garden  of  Hesperides,  to 
us  the  name  lotus  at  once  brings  up  the 
gorgeous  water-lily  that  once  rocked  upon 
the  Nile,  with  its  grand  pink  blossoms  and 
its  great  green  leaves.  The  Nelumbium  has 
taken  kindly  to  American  soil,  having  in- 
creased in  several  marshy  localities  in  New 
Jersey  with  astonishing  rapidity,  entirely 
crowding  out  the  native  growths  of  arrow- 
head, pickerel  weed,  and  horsetail,  where 
it  has  been  placed  and  become  established. 
With  its  great  tendency  to  spread  and  mul- 
tiply, it  will  soon  supply  the  dragon-fly  a 
classic  flower  to  rest  upon,  and  the  great 
green  frog  a still  more  spacious  paludal 
throne  than  that  hitherto  supplied  by  the 
shield  of  the  native  water-lily. 


1 56  The  Story  of  my  House. 


Suspended  above  the  tank  are  numerous 
large  plants  of  Lcelia  anceps  and  L.  a.  mo- 
rada,  leaning  their  long  lavender  sprays 
over  the  pool,  like  flocks  of  hovering  but- 
terflies. With  them  are  also  suspended 
large  specimens  of  the  staghorn  and  the 
hare’sfoot  ferns.  Ferns  and  orchids  invari- 
ably look  well  in  combination.  Palms  be- 
ing somewhat  stiff  themselves,  do  not  as- 
sociate so  well  with  orchids,  which  need 
the  relief  of  more  graceful  foliage.  The 
hare’sfoot  fern  is  appropriately  named,  the 
innumerable  twisting  rhizomes  being  soft 
and  woolly,  like  the  foot  of  a hare,  and  the 
fronds  fine  and  feathery.  Of  all  the  Lcelias , 
L.  a.  morada  has  the  longest  stems,  and  is 
among  the  largest  and  finest  flowered.  I 
grant  the  exquisite  beauty  and  fragrance  of 
the  white  form.  Comparatively  an  inex- 
pensive variety,  the  former  is  to  be  preferred 
to  some  others  quoted  at  from  ten  to  twenty 
times  its  marketable  value.  For  in  orchids, 
price  very  frequently  does  not  represent  in- 
trinsic beauty  of  bloom;  and  mere  rareties 
or  orchidaceous  curiosities  are  preferable  in 
one’s  neighbor’s  collection.  I am  satisfied 
with  fine  specimens  of  a few  of  the  easier 
grown  and  really  beautiful  species  and  va- 
rieties. A fine  plant  of  Cypripedium  oenan- 
thum  which  my  neighbor  values  at  a thou- 
sand dollars  is  not  worth  my  Lcelia  to  me. 
Its  flower  is  stiff  in  comparison,  and  its  dor- 


My  Indoor  Garden.  157 


sal  sepal,  though  strikingly  rayed — white, 
striped  with  pink — has  not  the  grace  and 
beauty  of  the  Lcelia's  velvety  petals  and  the 
exquisite  blossoms  of  many  other  species. 
After  all,  may  it  not  well  be  questioned 
whether  the  hardy  pink  lady-slipper  has  a 
rival  among  the  numerous  species  and  hy- 
brids of  the  big  labellums  and  long-tailed 
petals  ? 

My  orchids,  like  my  roses,  have  their 
parasites  — the  green  and  yellow  fly,  the 
black  thrip,  the  mealy-bug,  the  lesser  snail, 
the  scale.  Of  late  years  the  yellow  fly  has 
become  more  numerous,  though,  with  the 
green  fly,  the  rose  is  his  especial  prey.  It 
is  difficult  to  know  what  plan  to  adopt 
against  my  insect  enemies.  The  rule  of 
three  will  not  solve  the  difficulty,  for  a 
mean  proportional  does  not  exist.  If  my 
houses  are  too  hot  or  the  plants  too  dry, 
the  red  spider  and  black  thrip  swarm;  if 
too  cold,  the  mildew  comes;  if  the  weather 
be  muggy,  it  is  a summons  for  the  green 
and  yellow  fly.  Tobacco  stems  placed 
upon  the  hot-water  pipes  banish  the  black 
thrip  where  fumigating  is  of  no  avail.  Fu- 
migating alone  will  disperse  the  aphides. 
The  smaller  snail  I must  bate  with  lettuce 
leaves;  the  larger  one  must  be  searched  for 
at  night  with  a lantern.  For  mildew  I 
must  place  sulphur  and  lime  on  the  pipes, 
and  the  scale  and  mealy-bug  demand  their 


1 58 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


periodical  sponge  - bath.  The  cockroach 
sips  treacle  and  is  lost  in  the  sweets. 
Wood-lice  come  from  underneath  the 
benches,  and  the  lesser  snail,  despite  all 
precautions,  will  sometimes  bite  off  a flow- 
er-spike six  times  larger  than  himself.  It 
all  reminds  me  of  a passage  in  the  Faerie 
Queen: 

A cloud  of  cumbrous  gnats  do  him  molest, 

All  striving  to  infixe  their  feeble  stinges, 

That  from  their  noyance  he  no  where  can  rest; 

But  with  his  clownish  hands  their  tender  wings 
He  brusheth  oft,  and  oft  doth  mar  their  murmurings. 

Care  and  attention  are  ever  the  price  of  the 
flower. 

It  is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at  that  or- 
chids have  their  insects;  the  wonder  is  they 
do  not  possess  them  in  greater  numbers, 
the  flowers  themselves  so  resemble  insects 
and  strange  creatures  of  the  air.  I can 
scarcely  define  which  attracts  me  most,  the 
singular  flowers  or  the  fantastic  odors  they 
exhale.  Perfumes  of  lilacs  and  primroses — 
lilacs  and  primroses  thrice  intensified — greet 
me  when  Oncidium  incurvum  and  Dendro- 
bium  heterocarpum  are  in  bloom.  The 
redolence  of  jasmines,  jonquils,  and  cycla- 
mens is  combined  in  many  of  the  Cattleyas, 
while  Odontoglossum  gloriosum  seems  a 
whole  hawthorn  hedge  in  flower.  I open 
the  door  of  the  warm-house  when  the  Van- 
das are  in  bloom,  and  I know  not  what 


My  Indoor  Garden. 


59 


subtle  overpowering  fragrance  weighs 
down  the  air.  What  a sachet  and  censer 
of  perfume ! what  a spice-box  of  the  Ori- 
ent ! Cleopatra  might  have  just  passed 
through.  Such  strange  odors!  languorous, 
sensuous,  all  but  intoxicating!  I expect  to 
hear  a tom-tom’s  beat,  or  the  rustle  of  a 
houri’s  skirt.  Some  of  the  Stanhopeas, 
how  powerful  their  scent — a pot-pourri  of 
all  the  gums  of  Brazil!  The  suave  yet  pun- 
gent aroma  exhaled  by  one  of  the  Oncidi- 
ums  ( O . ornithorhynchum ),  I can  never 
get  enough  of.  Its  insidious,  delicious  fra- 
grance defies  analysis;  it  haunts  me  like  an 
unremembered  dream  or  a thought  that 
has  escaped.  Intensely  red  flowers  are 
seldom  odorous ; the  brilliant  Sophronites — 
some  of  them  the  purest  essence  of  scarlet 
—are  scentless.  The  Phalcenopsis , too,  al- 
though among  the  most  floriferous  of  or- 
chids, are  likewise  inodorous. 

It  is  fascinating  to  attempt  to  trace  the 
resemblance  of  some  of  the  odors.  G.  W. 
Septimus  Piesse  would  be  at  a loss  to  place 
many  of  them  or  to  determine  their  combi- 
nation. Some,  on  the  contrary,  are  dis- 
tinctly like  many  well-known  and  grateful 
odors,  though  generally  much  more  pro- 
nounced. From  Dendrobium  aureum  and 
Cattleya  gigas  there  rises  a triple  extract  of 
violets ; from  Cattleya  citrina 3 a strong  fra- 
grance of  limes;  from  D.  scabrilingue,  a 


i6o 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


delicious  breath  of  wall-flowers;  from  D. 
moschatum,  a pronounced  musk-like  scent. 
Besides  Odontoglossum  gloriosum,  both 
Burlingtonia  fragrans  and  Trichopilia 
suavis  emit  a perfume  of  hawthorn.  One 
of  the  Zygopetalums  smells  like  hya- 
cinths, one  of  the  Oncidiums  like  cinna- 
mon, one  of  the  Cataseiums  like  anise. 
The  straw-colored  flowers  of  C.  scurra 
have  a pronounced  perfume  of  lemons. 
Cymbidium  Mastersii  is  charged  with  the 
odor  of  almonds.  Dendrobium  incurvum 
is  distinctly  jasmine  scented.  A mellif- 
luous essence  of  cyclamen  clusters  about 
D.  Dominianum.  Not  a few  orchids  smell 
like  honey,  while  in  others  I can  plain- 
ly trace  the  scent  of  elder  flower,  helio- 
trope, the  wild  grape,  sweet  pea,  vanilla, 
tuberose,  honeysuckle,  lily  of  the  valley, 
and  various  tropical  fruits,  like  the  pine-ap- 
ple, banana,  and  Monstera.  The  majority 
of  the  Vandas  and  Stanhopeas,  and  not  a 
few  of  the  Cattleyas , are  puzzling  to  place. 

Form  is  scarcely  less  strange  than  odor 
in  many  orchids,  most  of  the  species  bear- 
ing a pronounced  or  faint  resemblance  to 
some  form  of  bird,  insect,  or  animal  life. 
The  Masdevallias  and  Maxillarias , how 
like  the  walking-stick  and  water-skaters 
many  of  them  are!  My  primrose-scented 
Dendrobium  looks  like  a flock  of  lovely 
buff- colored  moths  ready  to  take  flight 


My  Indoor  Garden. 


161 


from  the  stems.  The  ivory-white  flowers 
of  Angraecum  sesquipidale,  whose  perfume 
so  strongly  resembles  that  of  the  white  gar- 
den lily,  look  like  a starfish.  These  Stan- 
hopeas,  whose  emanations  are  almost  over- 
powering and  whose  spikes  emerge  from 
the  bottom  of  their  suspended  baskets,  re- 
mind me  of  serpents  in  the  form  and  spots 
of  their  fleshy,  purplish  or  orange-dyed 
flowers.  The  flowers  of  the  species  Angu- 
loa  resemble  a bull’s  head ; those  of  Cycno- 
ches  Loddigesii,  a swan.  In  the  white 
waxen  flower  of  Peresteria  elata  I trace  the 
symbol  of  immortality — a dove  with  ex- 
panded wings;  in  the  terrestrial  Ophrys  I 
almost  hear  the  humming  of  its  bees.  Many 
species  closely  resemble  spiders  and  beetles ; 
others  seem  almost  an  exact  counterfeit  of 
various  moths  and  butterflies — there  is  no 
end  to  the  strange  resemblances. 

Color  is  scarcely  less  strange  than  odor 
and  form.  These  abnormal  spots  and 
blotches,  these  oddly  tipped  petals  and 
painted  sepals,  I meet  in  no  other  flower. 
The  lily,  Sternbergia,  and  anemone  have 
each  been  singled  out  as  the  candidate  for 
the  honor  of  being  referred  to  in  the  twen- 
ty-ninth verse  of  the  sixth  chapter  of  St. 
Matthew.  But  was  any  one  of  these,  or  even 
Solomon  himself,  arrayed  like  Dendrobium 
Wardianuml  The  most  gorgeous  of  its 
gorgeous  tribe,  it  is  perhaps  the  most  gor- 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


1 62 


geous  of  flowers;  and  among  the  easiest 
grown  species,  it  blossoms  freely,  suspend- 
ed in  the  library  from  a block  of  wood. 

I must  watch  long  to  see  a blue  or  pur- 
ple orchid  in  bloom,  colors  common  enough 
among  garden  and  other  greenhouse  flow- 
ers. True  red  and  vermilion  are  extreme- 
ly rare,  yellow  in  its  various  shades  being 
perhaps  the  most  common  color,  green  and 
white  occupying  an  almost  equal  place. 
Brown-shaded  or  brown-spotted  flowers 
are  common,  and  there  exist  numerous 
pink-purples  and  crimsons.  Magenta  fre- 
quently creeps  into  the  Cattleyas,  staining 
the  crest  of  the  pearl  or  cream-colored  lobe, 
or  splashing  the  curled  or  fimbriated  lip.  But 
magenta  lends  itself  better  to  orchids  than 
to  other  flowers;  and  objectionable  as  it 
generally  is,  it  may  be  pardoned  in  some  of 
the  Cattleyas.  It  is  a tropical  color  and 
brings  perfume.  Apart  from  the  strange 
odors,  shapes,  and  colors  of  the  flowers,  the 
orchid  still  continues  exceptional  in  the 
wonderful  duration  of  its  blooms  both  upon 
the  plant  and  in  the  cut  stage.  Epiphytal  or 
terrestrial,  tropical  or  native,  in  all  its  as- 
pects the  orchid  is  strange. 

How  few,  while  admiring  the  gorgeous 
beauty  of  an  epiphytal  orchid,  think  of  the 
price  it  has  cost  to  transfer  it  from  its  tropi- 
cal habitat  ! For  very  many  of  the  numer- 
ous species  have  been  obtained  at  the  sacri- 


My  Indoor  Garden. 


1 63 


fice  of  human  lives — martyrs  to  hardship, 
exposure,  and  disease  engendered  while 
wresting  a new  species  from  its  miasma- 
infested  home.  The  accounts  of  many 
orchid  collectors  who  have  lived  to  relate 
their  experiences  read  like  the  exploits  of  a 
Stanley  or  a tale  of  Verne. 

If  my  orchids  are  chary  of  red,  many 
foliage  plants  supply  this  color  abundantly, 
and  ferns  the  graceful  leafage  and  lovely 
greens  which  orchids  lack.  I say  nothing 
of  the  palm,  the  tree-fern,  the  Monstera,  the 
Musa 3 and  similar  large  plants  that  require 
special  quarters  where  they  may  have  am- 
ple space  to  do  them  justice.  But  color  and 
form  are  supplied  by  many  medium-sized 
foliage  plants  of  comparatively  easy  culture; 
and  in  selecting  these,  like  orchids,  it  is 
well  to  choose  a few  of  the  finest  and  most 
distinct,  rather  than  crowd  the  stages  with 
a mass  of  plants  of  only  average  merit. 
One  can  never  cease  to  admire  the  brilliant 
mottling  and  veining  of  the  Croton’s  ever- 
green foliage,  the  grand  purplish  green 
leaves  of  Maranta  Zebrina , the  elegant 
markings  of  the  Calladium,  the  velvety 
crimson-mottled  leaves  of  the  Gesneras,  the 
polished  bronze  shields  of  Alocassia  metal- 
lica,  the  bronze-green  and  satiny  luster  of 
the  Camphylobtrys,  the  vivid  exquisite  red 
tones  of  the  Dracaena 's  younger  leafage,  and 
the  Poinsettms  fiery  scarlet  whorls.  Per- 
il 


164  The  Story  of  my  House. 


haps  no  other  red,  even  that  of  the  pome- 
granate, is  quite  so  intense  as  the  flaming 
spathe  and  spadix  of  several  of  the  great 
tropical  aroids  belonging  to  the  species 
Anthurium , valuable  for  their  fine  foliage  as 
well  as  for  their  startling  flowers.  An  in- 
teresting foliage  plant  is  the  old  Strelit^ia 
regince , producing  singular  brilliant  orange 
and  purple  flowers,  one  continually  push- 
ing up  beneath  the  other  from  its  magical 
wand.  The  Imatophyllum,  or  Clivia,  is 
likewise  a satisfactory  foliage  plant,  apart 
from  the  showy  florescence  of  its  large 
umbel  of  twelve  to  fifteen  coppery-red  blos- 
soms. 

The  variegated  form  of  the  pine-apple 
(Ananas  bracteatus)  goes  farther  than  any 
other  greenhouse  plant  in  its  combined 
appeal  to  the  senses,  its  rich  reddish  foliage 
pleasing  the  eye,  and  its  rich  red  fruit  cap- 
tivating the  sense  of  sight,  smell,  and  taste. 

I fancy  the  smaller  fruit  of  this  variety  is  of 
more  pronounced  flavor  than  that  of  the 
type;  but  this  may  be  simply  owing  to  its 
more  inviting  appearance.  One  needs  no 
other  odor  in  the  greenhouse  when  the 
pine-apple  is  in  fruit.  It  was  a Huguenot 
priest  who  described  the  pine-apple,  three 
centuries  ago,  as  a gift  of  such  excellence 
that  only  the  hand  of  Venus  should  gather 
it.  It  might  have  fallen  from  the  sky  a 
larger  and  more  delicious  strawberry.  No 


My  Indoor  Garden. 


165 


one  who  has  tasted  it  only  after  it  has  been 
plucked  green  and  subjected  to  a long  voy- 
age in  the  hold  of  a vessel,  can  conceive  its 
ambrosial  flavor  when  cut  ripe  from  the 
stem.  It  is  a fresh  revelation  to  the  taste ; it 
almost  renews  one’s  youth. 

Some  specimens  of  the  Sarracenias  or 
pitcher-plants  are  interesting,  though  when 
suspended  from  their  baskets  they  lack 
their  native  grace.  I always  recall  the  Sar- 
racenia  as  I first  met  it,  its  purple  cups  and 
rufous-green  leaves  fringing  a deep  black 
pool.  Springing  from  the  sphagnum,  cot- 
ton-rose, and  cranberry  tangle  of  the 
swamp,  it  seemed  to  possess  a conscious 
life  of  freshness  and  of  color,  callous  to  No- 
vember frost  and  cold.  The  thick  carpet  of 
cranberry  upheld  the  footstep  on  the  quak- 
ing bog,  and  every  tread  spilled  the  water 
from  the  Sarracenia  s brimming  cups  and 
leaves.  Aflame  with  scarlet  berries,  a 
growth  of  black-alder  skirted  the  outer 
edges  of  the  pool ; on  the  rising  ground  be- 
yond, the  gray  boles  and  gilded  foliage  of  a 
beech  grove  were  illumined  by  the  sinking 
sun.  It  was  a study  for  a Ruysdael  or  a 
Diaz,  if  a Diaz  could  reproduce  the  mellow 
grays  and  reds  of  the  sphagnum  and  the 
Sarracenia.  Fontainebleau  or  the  thickets 
of  Bas-Breau  hold  no  such  pool ; it  is  alone 
the  product  of  a wild  New  World  swamp. 

Of  flowers  grown  for  the  sake  of  fra- 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


1 66 


grance  alone,  or  beauty  of  blossom  and  fra- 
grance combined,  it  is  difficult  to  specify 
which  are  the  most  desirable — so  many  are 
so  beautiful.  Such  stiff,  soulless  subjects 
as  the  camellia  and  calla  are  worthless,  and 
should  be  thrown  out  of  the  greenhouse — 
there  are  too  many  good  things  to  take 
their  place.  A flower  should  have  a mean- 
ing, or  a sentiment  attached  to  it;  and  the 
camellia  and  calla  have  none;  they  are  frigid 
even  for  the  grave.  Many  of  the  glaring 
blues,  purples,  crimsons,  and  magentas  of  the 
Cinerarias,  and  some  of  the  agonizing  reds 
of  the  Chinese  primrose  are  equally  to  be 
avoided  as  so  much  rubbish  for  which  the 
greenhouse  has  no  room.  The  common 
pink  begonia,  which  every  one  grows  be- 
cause every  one  else  grows  it,  should  like- 
wise be  left  out  in  favor  of  many  other 
better  varieties  of  its  class.  Of  roses  there 
can  not  well  be  too  many;  and  of  these  a 
well-grown  Marechal  Niel  or  a Gloire  de 
Dijon  can  scarcely  be  excelled  for  luxuri- 
ance, fragrance,  and  beauty  of  bloom. 

I should  hesitate  which  to  pronounce 
the  most  satisfactory — the  cyclamen  or  the 
lily  of  the  valley,  both  are  so  sweet.  The 
latter  is  much  more  easily  raised;  the  for- 
mer must  be  sowed  from  seed  yearly;  it 
does  not  propagate.  The  fragrance  of  the 
cyclamen  is  delicious  and  distinct.  But  it  is 
of  a variable  quantity,  some  kinds  being 


My  Indoor  Garden. 


167 


delightfully  scented,  and  some  odorless. 
Marie  Louise  violets — 

The  violet  of  March  that  comes  with  spring, 

should,  of  course,  be  generously  grown  in 
frames  connected  with  the  greenhouse,  to 
cut  from  ad  libitum  ; there  is  no  other  in- 
door or  outdoor  flower  to  take  the  place  of 
the  violet.  Neither  can  the  carnation  be 
dispensed  with,  this  colored  clove  among 
flowers,  which  only  demands  a cool  tem- 
perature to  repay  cultivation.  And  how 
could  one  be  without  the  haunting  fra- 
grance of  mignonette  ! 

Tulips,  hyacinths,  and  crocus,  methinks, 
should  not  be  raised  indoors — their  true 
place  is  in  the  April  garden  without,  to 
herald  the  returning  spring.  A few  of  the 
white,  salmon,  and  vermilion  geraniums 
are  showy  and  sometimes  useful,  especially 
the  small  double  vermilion;  the  majority 
do  not  compare  with  many  of  the  fine  dis- 
carded pelargoniums  which  florists  com- 
plain they  can  not  sell,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  they  do  not  raise  them.  The  fuchsia 
has  some  fine  and  striking  forms ; the  ma- 
jority are  undesirable.  The  heliotrope  is 
desirable  for  its  fragrance,  though  it  withers 
quickly  when  cut.  The  Freesia  is  an  easily 
grown  and  beautiful  flower  that  should  be 
forced  as  abundantly  as  the  Convallaria  for 
cutting.  Daphne  Indica  and  odora  one  can 


68 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


not  well  do  without,  and  equally  valuable 
for  fragrance  are  the  climbing  Madagascar 
Stephanotis  and  some  of  the  jasmines. 

Among  other  desirable  climbers  possess- 
ing fragrance  should  be  included  some  of 
the  passion  flowers  and  the  showy  yellow 
Brazilian  Allamanda.  A few  specimen 
plants  of  the  fragrant  Chinese  azalea  are 
always  ornamental,  and  useful  for  cutting; 
some  of  the  rose-colored  kinds  are  among 
the  gayest  of  greenhouse  flowers,  notably  the 
old  variety  ‘ ‘ Rosette.  ” A somewhat  difficult 
hot-house  plant  to  grow  is  Alstroemeria 
ligtu,  with  white  and  scarlet  flowers  appear- 
ing during  February,  and  possessing  a strong 
scent  of  mignonette.  The  pure  waxy  white 
flowers  of  the  Eucharis,  or  lily  of  the  Ama- 
zon, are  invaluable  for  cutting,  the  robust 
bulbous  plants  being  easily  raised,  and  pro- 
ducing their  flower-trusses  in  great  luxuri- 
ance. For  cutting,  the  numerous  species  of 
narcissus  can  scarcely  be  equaled ; from  the 
many  beautiful  bunch-flowered  varieties  of 
the  ta^etta,  and  the  glorious  blooms  of  the 
large  trumpeters,  to  the  smaller  hoop-petti- 
coat daffodil  and  golden  campernelle  jon- 
quil. A plant  seldom  seen  under  glass,  but 
an  excellent  plant,  notwithstanding,  is  the 
common  sweet-scented  yellow  day  lily  (He- 
merocallis  flava ),  than  which  few  flowers 
are  more  beautiful  either  in  the  garden 
or  greenhouse.  Where  one  has  sufficient 


My  Indoor  Garden. 


169 


space,  the  garden  lilac  may  be  advantage- 
ously grown  in  the  greenhouse,  care  being 
taken  not  to  force  it  too  fast,  or  the  trusses 
soon  droop  when  cut. 

Naturally,  no  greenhouse  is  complete 
without  the  chrysanthemum,  which,  defying 
the  first  frosts  without,  makes  us  forget  the 
approach  of  winter  within.  I still  grow  the 
old-fashioned  small-flowered  white,  yellow, 
and  maroon  pompons.  Of  recent  years 
hybridizing  has  produced  an  innumerable 
quantity  of  large,  loose  outre  forms  among  the 
Chinese  and  Japanese  sections.  In  many 
cases  this  has  been  done  at  the  sacrifice  of 
bloom  and  beauty  of  color.  Dingy  brown 
disks  have  crept  into  the  flowers ; and  the 
chrysanthemum  may  be  said  to  have  de- 
teriorated rather  than  improved  under  too 
much  cultivation. 


IX. 

A BLUE-VIOLET  SALAD. 

Ce  fut  un  beau  souper,  ruisselant  de  surprises. 

Les  rotis,  cuits  a point,  n’arriverent  pas  froids: 

Par  ce  beau  soir  d’hiver,  on  avait  des  cerises 
Et  du  Johannisberg,  ainsi  que  chez  les  rois. 
Theodore  de  Banville,  Odes  Funambulesques. 

he  dining-room  is  large  and  lofty, 
having  been  planned  with  spe- 
cial reference  to  ventilation,  spa- 
ciousness, and  the  attractive 
views  it  commands  of  the  copse, 
the  garden,  and  the  rising  and  the  setting 
sun. 

If  it  is  pleasant  to  dream  in  the  well- 
furnished  library,  if  it  is  a delight  to  muse 
and  study  amid  harmonious  surroundings, 
how  much  more  important  it  is  that  the 
great  nursery  of  a pleasing  frame  of  mind, 
the  dining-room,  should  by  its  inviting  sur- 
roundings and  the  care  and  intelligence  be- 
stowed upon  its  adjuncts,  the  kitchen  and 
the  wine-cellar,  contribute  equally  to  the 
felicity  of  the  house  and  home! 


A Blue- Violet  Salad. 


171 


With  the  exception  of  the  ball-room,  the 
dining-room  should  be  the  most  spacious 
apartment  of  the  house.  For  is  it  not  the 
most  occupied  and  visited  ? Three  times 
daily,  at  least,  the  inmates  assemble  here; 
and  in  the  case  of  entertainments  I observe  it 
is  invariably  a shrine  to  which  the  guests 
repair  with  almost  one  accord.  To  be 
sure,  the  host  and  hostess  are  not  entirely 
neglected,  and  the  flow  of  conversation  is 
never  wholly  restrained  in  the  drawing- 
room. Yet  I have  never  failed  to  notice, 
where  a large  assemblage  of  invited  guests 
is  present  in  any  house,  how  powerful  a 
magnet  the  dining-room  possesses.  This 
not  only  to  the  sleek  and  rubicund  among 
the  sterner  sex — men  who  are  known  for 
their  fondness  for  good  cheer;  but  even  to 
the  slim  and  ethereal  among  the  gentler  sex, 
as  well.  Pale  sylphs  whom  one  would 
scarcely  suspect  capable  of  an  accomplished 
play  of  a knife  and  fork,  staid  matrons, 
blooming  rosebuds,  and  elderly  dames,  all 
seem  no  less  fascinated  with  the  charms  of 
the  dining-room.  It  is  the  source  and  dis- 
pensator  of  joy  when  its  appointments  are 
perfect — the  one  room  of  all  rooms  of  the 
house  which  may  not  be  abolished. 

How  may  I enjoy  the  other  portions  of 
my  house  if  the  dinner  be  poorly  served 
and  the  environments  amid  which  it  is  par- 
taken be  dismal  or  unattractive  ? The  din- 


172 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


ner  should  be  the  diapason  to  pitch  one  in 
the  right  key  for  the  evening,  whether  it 
be  the  perusal  of  a favorite  author,  a moon- 
light stroll,  a ball,  or  a symposium  with 
one’s  friends.  Carlyle’s  dining-room,  I 
venture  to  say,  was  a gloomy  one ; or  his 
cook,  lacking  a happy  turn  for  an  entrte, 
served  him  with  ponderous  pieces  de  resist- 
ance, thereby  the  more  intensifying  his 
natural  acerbity  and  want  of  geniality.  Is 
the  German  invariably  happy,  overflowing 
with  Gemuthlichkeit ? He  has  three  hun- 
dred and  sixty-five  soups,  one  for  every 
day  in  the  year.  Is  the  Frenchman  pro- 
verbially polite  and  effervescent  ? His  deli- 
cate ragouts  and  fragrant  Bordeaux  are  a 
constant  tonic  to  his  spirits.  “Repose  is 
as  much  the  result  of  a well-organized  di- 
gestion as  of  a quiet  mind,”  observes  the 
axiomatic  and  irrefutable  author  of  the  366 
Menus.  Thrice  blessed  he  who  has  a 
good  conscience  and  a good  cook.  Your 
conscience  may  be  as  clear  as  a mountain 
brook,  however,  but  without  a good  diges- 
tion life  becomes  a weariness. 

A pleasant  dining-room  and  a well-ap- 
pointed kitchen,  therefore,  become  among 
the  most  important  factors  in  the  happiness 
of  the  household — the  best  means  of  defeat- 
ing that  ennui  which,  according  to  Schopen- 
hauer, fills  the  moiety  of  a man’s  life.  The 
Savarins,  the  La  Reynieres,  and  the  Baron 


A Blue- Violet  Salad. 


'73 


Brisses  can  never  be  too  many.  “I  regard 
the  discovery  of  a new  dish,”  said  the  late 
Henrion  de  Pensey,  the  magistrate  (accord- 
ing to  M.  Royer  Collard),  of  whom  regen- 
erated France  has  most  reason  to  be  proud, 
“as  a far  more  interesting  event  than  the 
discovery  of  a star,  for  we  always  have 
stars  enough,  but  we  can  never  have  too 
many  dishes;  and  I shall  not  regard  the 
sciences  as  sufficiently  honored  or  adequate- 
ly represented  among  us  until  I see  a cook 
in  the  first  class  of  the  Institute.” 

They  manage  these  things  better  in 
France,  though  the  art  of  gastronomy  of 
late  years  has  advanced  as  rapidly  in  this 
country,  perhaps,  as  any  of  its  sister  arts. 
It  is  no  longer  a burden  to  approach  the 
dinner-table;  and  while  we  may  not  have 
transposed  the  maxim  that  Harpagon 
deemed  so  noble,  nevertheless,  it  may  be 
affirmed,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  expres- 
sion, that  we  no  longer  “eat  to  live.”  For 
is  not  this  among  the  highest  of  arts  — a 
sauce  “that,  when  properly  prepared,  will 
enable  one  to  eat  an  elephant  ? ” as  Grimod 
de  la  Reyniere  observes  in  the  Almanach 
des  Gourmands.  With  an  abundant  sup- 
ply of  herbs  and  flavorings,  a hygienic  ap- 
preciation of  their  virtues,  and  a refined, 
discriminating  taste,  all  is  possible.  The 
“palate  is  flattered”  and  the  stomach  is 
not  fatigued.  If  the  cook  or  the  person 


174 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


who  employs  him  would  only  carry  out 
the  advice  the  Almanach  prescribes,  in  or- 
der that  the  cook’s  palate  may  retain  its  ex- 
quisite sensibility,  and  the  trained  papillae 
of  his  tongue  forever  command  their  cun- 
ning! 

These  fine  savors,  these  subtle  aromas 
of  a delicious  dish,  delicate  as  the  fragrance 
of  a wild  flower,  and  companions  of  the 
liquid  essences  of  the  Gironde,  the  Cote 
d’Or,  the  Marne,  and  the  Rheingau — when 
conceived  and  executed  by  a true  priest  or 
priestess  of  the  range,  how  they  refresh  the 
jaded  spirits  and  turn  the  lowering  winter 
sky  into  couleur  de  rose  ! It  remained  for 
a woman,  the  late  Mrs.  Mary  Booth,  to  give 
to  posterity  the  most  delicious  epigram  that 
has  yet  been  uttered  regarding  dinners  and 
dinner-giving:  “A  successful  dinner  is  the 
best  thing  which  the  world  can  do  in  the 
pursuit  of  pleasure.  It  is  the  apotheosis  of 
the  present,  and  the  present  moment  is  all 
we  can  call  our  own.”  Neither  let  us  for- 
get for  a single  instant,  where  dinner-giv- 
ing is  concerned,  the  golden  maxim  of 
Baron  Brisse  : “A  host  whose  guest  has 
had  to  ask  for  anything  is  a dishonored 
man ! ” 

Let  the  dinner  be  served  in  a well-lighted, 
spacious,  and  pleasantly  furnished  room ; let 
the  chairs  be  easy,  the  guests  not  less  than 
eight  nor  more  than  ten  ( les  diners  fins  se 


A Blue-Violet  Salad. 


'15 


font  en  petit  comite) , the  linen  spotless,  the 
service  faultless.  Let  the  wines  not  exceed 
four — a light  hock,  redolent  of  the  fruit  of 
the  Riesling;  a glass  or  two  of  Montepul- 
ciano  or  of  Pichon-Longueville,  two  flutes 
of  half  dry  champagne  (cider  rather  than 
“brut")  or  sparkling  dry  Saint- Peray;  and 
for  the  after-taste — the  last  taste  of  sweets — 
the  perfumed  sunshine  of  Sauternes,  Lafau- 
rie,  or  La  Tour  Blanche  of  a well-succeeded 
year,  iced  to  snow.  “A  glass  of  wine,” 
Richard  Sheridan  used  to  say,  “would  en- 
courage the  bright  thought  to  come;  and 
then  it  was  right  to  take  another  to  reward 
it  for  coming.”  Let  the  courses  not  ex- 
ceed seven,  including  the  salad  ; let  the 
room  be  well  ventilated;  the  flowers  mildly 
stimulating  rather  than  cloying  in  their  fra- 
grance; let  the  repast  not  exceed  two  and 
a half  hours  in  duration — and,  for  the  pres- 
ent at  least,  we  are — 

Notes  in  that  great  symphony 
Whose  cadence  circles  through  the  rhythmic  spheres. 

The  senseless  practice  of  decanting  wine  can 
not  be  too  strongly  condemned.  A delicate 
wine  seems  never  the  same  as  when  poured 
from  the  bottle  in  which  it  has  ripened  and 
in  which  it  has  concentrated  its  odors. 
The  practice,  moreover,  is  incongruous ; for 
even  he  who  decants  his  “claret”  would 
not  think  of  needlessly  dissipating  the  bou- 


17 6 The  Story  of  my  House. 


quet  of  his  hock.  As  for  the  matter  of  sedi- 
ment being  avoided  by  decanting,  decanted 
wines  are  invariably  seen  in  a clouded  con- 
dition, their  bloom  having  been  brushed 
off  by  the  very  process  of  decanting.  By 
laying  all  bottles  on  their  side,  with  the 
label  uppermost,  while  they  remain  in  the 
repose  of  the  cellar,  and  then  placing  them 
upright  a day  or  a few  hours  before  they 
are  required,  the  question  of  sediment  is  at 
once  disposed  of.  Then,  if  the  wine  be 
carefully  poured,  label  upward,  it  wells 
forth  as  limpid  as  a woodland  spring. 

Equally  to  be  censured  is  the  increasing 
custom  of  serving  wine  in  colored  glasses — 
a fashion  inaugurated  by  the  gentler  sex  in 
order  to  add  a supposititious  life  to  the  table. 
Apart  from  the  great  mistake  of  thus  mask- 
ing the  color  of  the  wine  itself,  and  thereby 
impairing  its  attractiveness  to  the  eye,  there 
is  no  color  produced  by  the  most  cunning 
artificer  in  glass  which  approaches  the  col- 
ors extracted  from  the  skin  of  the  grapes 
themselves. 

What  green  Bohemian  glass  may  equal 
in  hue  this  golden  green  of  Liebfrauenmilch 
that  so  enhances  the  flavor  of  these  speckled 
trout  which  but  yesterday  were  swim- 
ming amid  the  waving  watercresses  of  the 
stream  ? 

Or  shall  I obliterate  the  lovely  color  of 
Bordeaux  which,  captivating  the  sense  of 


A Blue- Violet  Salad. 


'll 


seeing,  thus  additionally  heightens  through 
the  imagination  the  exquisite  bouquet  and 
flavor  of  the  grand  growths  of  the  Medoc  ? 
Disguised  in  an  opaque  receptacle,  how 
may  I enjoy  the  liquid  gold  of  Sauternes  or 
the  deep  violets  and  purples  which  dance 
and  gleam  in  a glass  of  Cote  Rotie?  Yet 
more  than  clear  crystal  is  required  in  the 
ideal  wine-glass.  The  most  delicious  nec- 
tar loses  half  its  virtues  if  drunk  from  a thick 
glass  or  a sharp,  rough  rim,  as  the  foaming 
juice  of  Champagne  is  deprived  of  its  great- 
est charm — its  bewitching,  mantling  life- — 
when  served  in  the  flat  tumbler  that  deadens 
its  sparkle  and  its  bead. 

It  was  not  without  just  reason  that  Boi- 
leau  declared : 

On  est  savant  quand  on  boit  bien ; 

Qui  ne  sait  boire  ne  sait  rien. 

Who  drinketh  well  his  wisdom  shows; 

Who  knows  not  drinking  nothing  knows. 

And  Jean  le  Houx,  in  the  dedication  of 
his  sparkling  Vaux  de  Vire — anacreontics 
which  are  unique  in  the  languages — asserts 
that  his  best  verses  were  produced  by 
drinking  good  wine,  while  inferior  wine 
was  responsible  for  the  poorest.  It  would 
be  interesting  to  know  what  special  wines 
inspired  the  incomparable  tribute  to  his 
nose — 


I'jS  The  Story  of  my  House. 


• . . Duquel  la  couleur  richement  particippe 
Du  rouge  et  violet, 

or  whether  it  was  white  or  red  wine  that 
drew  forth  the  frolicsome  stanzas  addressed 
to  Magdaleine. 

Le  Houx  deserves  to  be  classed  among 
the  great  philosophers.  It  is  to  be  regret- 
ted, however,  that  his  philosophy  did  not 
extend  to  dining  as  well  as  wining — though, 
for  that  matter,  the  eight  little  i8mo  vol- 
umes of  the  Almanach  des  Gourmands,* 
justly  classed  by  Monselet  among  the  great 
forgotten  books,  leave  nothing  to  be  desired 
on  the  subject  of  epicurism  in  its  most  in- 
finitesimal and  far-extending  details.  The 
humor  and  verve  are  exquisite,  while  La 
Reyniere’s  style  might  come  under  the 
definition  of  Remy  Belleau — “well-coupled 
and  properly  sewn  words,  graces  and  fa- 
vors of  a well-chosen  subject,  and  I do  not 
know  what  happy  chance  {et  ne  sqay  quel 
heur ),  which  truly  accompanies  those  who 
write  well.”  Only,  the  Almanach  is  in 
prose.  With  all  due  regard  for  Berchoux 
and  his  poem  in  four  cantos,  La  Gastrono- 
mic, the  editions  of  which  are  almost  as 
numerous  as  the  stars  in  the  Milky  Way, 
the  French  genius  is  yet  to  appear  who 


* Almanach  des  Gourmands.  Servant  de  Guide 
dans  les  Moyens  de  Faire  Excellente  Chere;  Par  un 
Viel  Amateur.  Troisieme  Edition.  A Paris  1804-1812. 


A Blue-Violet  Salad. 


179 


may  do  full  justice  in  verse  to  the  pleasures 
of  the  table. 

Le  Houx,  how  fine  his  touch!  and  how 
melodiously  he  plays  upon  all  the  strings 
of  the  oenologistic  harp ! 

I am  brave  as  a Caesar  in  wars  where  they  fight 
With  a glass  in  the  left  hand  and  jug  in  the  right. 

Let  me  rather  be  riddled  by  drinking  my  fill 
Than  by  those  cruel  balls  that  so  suddenly  kill ! 

’Tis  the  clashing  of  bottles  to  which  I incline; 

And  the  pipes  and  the  rundlets,  all  full  of  red  wine, 
Are  my  cannon  of  siege,  which  are  aimed  without  fault 
At  the  thirst,  the  true  fortress  I mean  to  assault. 

Tis  far  better  in  tumbler  to  shelter  one’s  nose, 

Where  ’tis  safer  than  in  a war-helmet  from  blows. 

Better  leader  than  trumpet  or  banner  is  sign 

Of  the  ivy  and  yew  bush  that  show  where  there’s  wine. 

It  is  better  by  fireside  to  drink  muscadel 
Than  to  go  on  a rampart  to  mount  sentinel. 

I would  rather  the  tavern  attend  without  fail 
Than  I’d  follow  my  captain  the  breach  to  assail. 

All  excesses,  however,  I hate  and  disclaim, 

Not  a toper  by  nature,  but  only  in  name. 

Jolly  wine,  bringing  laughter  and  friendly  carouse, 

I have  promised,  and  ever  will  pay  you  my  vows.* 

And  in  another  of  his  mirthful,  vinous 
phantasies : 

To  flee  from  my  sadness,  yet  stay  in  one  place, 

I take  horn  and  staff,  and  I practice  the  chase. 

Catch,  catch! 

Drink,  drink! 


* Translation  ofj.  P.  Muirhead,  M.  A. 
12 


180  The  Story  of  my  House. 


Hip,  hip! 

Catch,  catch! 

Keep  watch 

Lest  it  slip! 

My  game  is  the  thirst,  which  I don’t  want  to  catch. 

But  only  to  make  it  decamp  with  dispatch. 

The  goblet’s  my  bugle,  which  splendidly  sounds 

When  I lustily  blow;  the  bottle’s  my  hounds. 

The  table’s  my  forest  and  hunting-field  green 

When  close  set  with  covers  for  friends  and  me  seen. 

1 blow  on  my  bugle,  and,  loud  though  he  cry, 

Thirst  soon  will  break  cover,  or  else  he  must  die. 

O sweet-sounding  bugle,  mouth-instrument  dear! 

This  pastime  is  charming  when  bedtime  is  near. 

Catch,  catch! 

Drink,  drink! 

Hip,  hip! 

Catch,  catch! 

Keep  watch 

Lest  it  slip ! * 

But  Le  Houx’s  charming  eulogies  are  by 
no  means  confined  to  wine.  Cider,  among 
the  most  refreshing  and  prophylactic  of  sum- 
mer beverages  when  well  made,  evokes  al- 
most equally  the  playful  strains  of  his  lyre. 
Not  less  renowned  than  the  juice  of  the  ap- 
ple of  Devonshire  is  the  potent  apple  juice 
of  Normandy,  and  even  in  his  reference  to 
this  there  constantly  occurs  the  oft-repeated 
refrain : 

Drinking  is  sweeter  than  a kiss  to  me. 


* Translation  ofj.  P.  Muirhead,  M.  A. 


A Blue-Violet  Salad. 


81 


The  true  raison  d'etre  of  the  Vaux  de 
Vire,  it  may  be  stated,  was  a jealous  wife. 
Since  the  time  of  Le  Houx  there  have  been 
other  jealous  spouses  that  have  driven  their 
husbands  to  the  bottle  or  to  something 
worse;  but  none  have  done  so  with  such 
smiling  effect  as  the  wife  of  the  wine-lov- 
ing lawyer-poet  of  Vire. 

With  the  wine  at  the  proper  tempera- 
ture (and  this  point  it  is  the  bounden  duty 
of  the  host  to  personally  superintend),  a 
few  well-prepared  courses  partaken  of  with 
congenial  friends  amid  pleasant  surround- 
ings will  prove  far  more  agreeable  and 
leave  more  grateful  remembrances  than  the 
most  elaborate  banquet.  In  dining,  more 
than  in  anything  else,  quality  rather  than 
quantity  paves  the  way  to  happiness. 
The  petit,  and  not  the  grand  diner  is  the 
grace  of  the  table.  Like  many  of  the  ac- 
cidental things  of  life — the  chance  meeting, 
the  suddenly  conceived  excursion,  the  un- 
expected visit  from  out-of-town  friends — 
it  is  often  the  impromptu  repast  which  in- 
spires the  most  delightful  souvenirs. 

It  was  years  ago,  though  I remember  it 
as  distinctly  as  if  it  were  yesterday,  when  I 
found  my  friend  St.  Ange,  after  an  absence 
of  many  months,  ensconced  in  the  library, 
La  Gastronomie  in  one  hand  and  the  epicu- 
rean epigrams  of  Martial  in  the  other. 

A Julienne  soup,  some  smelt  with  a tar- 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


1 82 


tare  sauce,  sheep’s  tongues  a la  Jardiniere , 
quail,  and  an  endive  salad  were  to  compose 
the  dinner.  My  guest’s  rosy  face  took  on  an 
added  luster.  His  eyes  brightened  percep- 
tibly at  the  mention  of  the  quail. 

“ Let  me  prepare  them  ! ” he  exclaimed. 
“ I will  show  you  how  to  make  a salmis  of 
quail  that  is  not  down  in  the  cook-books ; 
it  is  composed  as  you  would  blend  and 
form  an  exquisite  perfume  : 

Thy  crown  of  roses  or  of  spikenard  be ; 

A crown  of  thrushes  is  the  crown  for  me.* 

I term  it  a salmis  a la  bourgeois  gentilhom- 
me ; like  Moliere’s  comedie-ballet,  it  is  pi- 
quant and  full  of  delightful  surprises.  Give 
me  the  quail,  the  shallots,  the  truffles,  the 
mushrooms,  and  you  will  never  forget  me!” 

There  were  four  larded  quails,  freshly 
roasted. 

He  took  a piece  of  unsalted  butter  the 
size  of  an  egg,  placed  it  in  the  porcelain 
sauce-pan,  and  allowed  it  to  liquefy.  When 
it  began  to  bubble,  he  put  in  two  shallots 
and  two  sprigs  of  parsley  finely  minced, 
stirring  until  browned,  adding  a teaspoon- 
ful of  sifted  flour.  When  well  incorporated, 
he  supplemented  this  with  two  cupfuls  of 
bouillon,  a pinch  of  salt,  and  for  the  bouquet 
garni  a third  of  a bay-leaf,  two  cloves,  a 


* Martial.  Elphinston’s  translation. 


A Blue- Violet  Salad. 


i83 


small  piece  of  cinnamon,  a pinch  of  thyme,  a 
dash  of  allspice  and  the  merest  trifle  of  nut- 
meg. Next  he  added  two  sliced  truffles  of 
Perigord,  the  juice  of  a can  of  button  mush- 
rooms, a tablespoonful  of  cognac,  a table- 
spoonful of  water,  and  a wine-glass  each  of 
Chablis  and  St.  Julien. 

His  face  glowed,  his  hazel  eyes  spar- 
kled, and  every  little  while  he  tasted  of  the 
savory  liaison. 

After  pouring  in  the  wine,  he  allowed 
the  sauce  to  boil  until  reduced  to  the  desired 
consistency.  The  can  of  mushrooms  was 
then  added ; and  about  ten  minutes  before 
serving,  one  of  the  quail  was  permitted  to 
simmer  in  the  perfumed  sauce.  Immedi- 
ately previous  to  placing  the  salmis  in  the 
chafing-dish,  and  decorating  it  with  crou- 
tons, he  dropped  in  a pepper-corn  and 
stirred  briskly. 

“ r Voila  qui  est  bien  ; ’ c’est  par  fait, 
mon  cher  ! **  he  said  with  a smile  ; “ le  sal- 
mis a bien  reussi  ! 

“I  always  use  a good  many  herbs  and 
seasonings,”  he  continued,  “though  I em- 
ploy them  only  in  very  small  quantities. 
By  using  them,  infinite  variety  of  flavorings 
may  be  produced,  and  they  are,  moreover, 
a great  tonic  to  the  stomach  if  dealt  out  by 
a judicious  hand.  Hence  the  superiority 
of  good  French  cooking;  variety  is  the 
spice  of  digestion.  Indeed,  pleasing  savors 


184  The  Story  of  my  House. 


or  sapid  impressions  usually  exert  the 
greatest  influence  upon  the  function  of 
digestion.  If  they  are  good  and  agreeable, 
the  secretion  of  the  gastric  juice  is  abun- 
dant, mastication  is  prolonged,  deglutition 
and  chylification  are  easy  and  rapid.  If 
they  are  bad  or  repugnant,  mastication  be- 
comes a labor,  deglutition  difficult,  and  a 
distressed  feeling  is  the  inevitable  result. 

“Perfection  in  cooking  consists  in  render- 
ing all  such  substances  as  may  be  utilized 
for  food  as  agreeable  to  the  taste  as  they 
are  easy  to  digest.  The  cook,  therefore, 
besides  possessing  a palate  of  extreme  deli- 
cacy, should  be  thoroughly  acquainted  with 
the  hygienic  properties  of  all  the  herbs  and 
seasonings  he  employs,  and  this  equally 
with  reference  to  their  effect  upon  the  stom- 
ach as  with  regard  to  their  pleasing  im- 
pression upon  the  organ  of  taste.  All 
spices  and  kindred  stimulants  should  be 
used  with  the  utmost  tact  and  discrimina- 
tion. 

“But  the  pleasures  that  flit  about  the 
well-appointed  table— the  appetite  which  is, 
after  all,  the  best  of  sauces  and  that  leads  to 
good  digestion  and  consequent  health  and 
enjoyment  of  the  other  pleasures  of  life — 
depend  upon  more  than  the  chef  and  the 
cuisine.  Back  of  the  most  seductive  dish 
and  piquant  sauce,  there  remains  the  capa- 
city to  enjoy  them,  which  is  alone  to  be  at- 


A Blue- Violet  Salad. 


1 8 s 


tained  in  its  fullest  measure  by  regular  hab- 
its (habits  as  regular,  at  least,  as  rational 
pleasure  and  recreation  will  allow)  ; and 
that  greatest  and  purest  of  tonics  and  pro- 
phylactics—-exercise  in  the  open  air.” 

In  due  time  the  entree  was  partaken  of. 
The  impromptu  chef  had  upset  the  kitchen 
from  casserole  to  pot-au-feu,  but  his  salmis 
was  worthy  of  Careme. 

There  was  a great  bunch  of  double  vio- 
lets on  the  table,  the  lovely  dark  blue  vari- 
ety ( Viola  odoratissima  fl.  pi.)  with  the 
short  stems,  freshly  plucked  from  the  violet 
frame  of  the  garden,  and  the  room  was 
scented  by  their  delicious  breath. 

A bowl  of  broad-leaved  Batavian  endive 
blanched  to  a nicety  and  alluring  as  a siren’s 
smile  was  placed  upon  the  table.  I almost 
fancied  it  was  smiling  at  the  violets.  A 
blue -violet  salad,  by  all  means!  there  are 
violets,  and  to  spare. 

On  a separate  dish  there  was  a little 
minced  celery,  parsley,  and  chives.  Four 
heaping  salad  - spoonfuls  of  olive  oil  were 
poured  upon  the  herbs,  with  a dessertspoon- 
ful of  white-wine  vinegar  (the  best  in  the 
world  comes  from  Orleans,  France),  the 
necessary  salt  and  white  pepper,  and  a 
tablespoonful  of  Bordeaux.  The  petals  of 
two  dozen  violets  were  detached  from  the 
stems,  and  two  thirds  of  them  were  incor- 
porated with  the  dressing.  The  dressing 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


1 86 


being  thoroughly  mixed  with  the  endive, 
the  remaining  flower  petals  were  sprinkled 
over  the  salad  and  a half-dozen  whole  vio- 
lets placed  in  the  center. 

The  lovely  blue  sapphires  glowed  upon 
the  white  bosom  of  the  endive!  It  was  the 
true  sequence  of  the  salmis. 

A white-labeled  bottle,  capsuled  Yquem, 
and  the  cork  branded  “ Lur  Saluces,”  was 
served  with  the  salad.  You  note  the  subtle 
aroma  of  pine-apple  and  fragrance  of  flower 
ottos  with  the  detonation  of  the  cork — the 
fine  vintages  of  Yquem  have  a pronounced 
Ananassa  flavor  and  bouquet  that  steeps  the 
palate  with  its  richness  and  scents  the  sur- 
rounding atmosphere. 

Now  try  your  blue-violet  salad. 

Is  it  fragrant  ? is  it  cool  ? is  it  delicious  ? 
is  it  divine  ? 


X. 

FOOTSTEPS  OF  SPRING. 

. . . The  yong  Sunn 
Hath  in  the  Ramm  his  halve  cours  yrunn. 

Chaucer. 

In  the  earlier  year  when  the  chill  winds  blow 
The  breath  of  buds  with  the  breath  of  snow, 

And  the  climbing  sap  like  a spirit  passes 
Through  trunks  unscreened  from  the  noonday  glow, 

O’er  the  wind-frayed  weeds  and  the  withered  grasses 
And  the  leaves  that  linger  in  layered  masses, 

March,  the  Master  of  Hounds,  doth  go 
To  hunt  the  hills  and  the  wet  morasses. 

C.  H.  Luders. 

y books,  my  flowers,  and  my  col- 
orful interior  surroundings  do 
much  to  relieve  the  monotony  of 
the  long  winter  months.  Not 
until  Aries  appears  for  his  ac- 
customed charge  upon  the  spring  do  I yearn 
intently  for  its  advent.  Then  the  days  seem 
the  longest — the  tedious  days  of  waiting;  v 
the  longest  days,  which  are  to  come,  will 
be  the  shortest.  For  the  days  may  not  be 
measured  by  the  length,  but  by  the  flight 
of  the  hours  and  the  beauty  they  bring ; the 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


1 88 


sun  and  the  shadows  shorten  the  longest 
day. 

Does  not  a restlessness  come  to  man  with 
the  ascending  sap  in  the  trees,  when  he 
likewise  would  cast  off  the  inertia  that  has 
possessed  him,  and  respond  to  the  magical 
touch  of  the  sun  ? There  is  much  that  is 
beautiful  in  the  mythopoeic  representation 
of  the  seasons.  All  winter,  says  the  legend, 
the  sweet  sunshine  is  chased  by  the  relent- 
less storm,  now  hiding  beneath  the  clouds, 
now  below  the  hills,  showing  herself  for  a 
moment  merely  to  flee  again.  But,  finally 
becoming  bolder,  the  Sunshine  advances  to 
meet  the  Storm,  who,  captivated  by  her 
beauty,  woos  her  as  he  pursues  her,  and 
wins  her  for  his  bride.  Then  is  there  great 
rejoicing  upon  the  earth,  and  from  their 
union  are  born  plants  which  spring  from  its 
surface  and  spangle  it  with  flowers.  But 
every  autumn  the  Storm  begins  to  frown 
anew,  the  Sunshine  flees  from  him,  and  the 
pursuit  begins  again. 

Is  not  the  sunshine,  more  than  anything 
else,  the  prelude  to  spring  ? How  it  sifts 
and  permeates  through  the  windows  into 
one’s  very  being,  this  first  March  sunshine! 
Looked  at  from  within  it  is  already  spring 
without,  so  luminous  the  atmosphere  and 
so  soft  the  shadows.  Perfectly  aware  am  I 
that  it  may  not  continue  and  that  the  storm 
will  cause  the  sunlight  to  hide  itself  again, 


Footsteps  of  Spring. 


189 


just  as  it  has  done  so  often  before  when  it 
merely  gleamed  for  a moment  from  the 
edge  of  the  cloud.  Even  now  the  fickle 
sun  sinks  behind  a sharp  dark  band  in  the 
west.  The  mole  must  retreat  to  his  bur- 
row; to-morrow  the  storm  and  the  snow! 
At  least  the  flowers  will  be  shielded  from 
the  chilling  blasts,  and  Nature  work  her 
own  reward.  Still  must  the  north  wind 
beat  ere  the  south  breeze  may  blow.  But 
how,  while  it  lasts,  the  sunlight  warms 
where  it  falls,  drawing  a scarlet  aureole 
from  the  maple,  setting  the  snow-banks 
free,  and  liberating  the  ice-locked  streams. 

Every  morning  now  must  the  Sun  rise 
earlier  to  fulfill  his  task.  The  buds  of  a 
million  forests  long  for  his  touch,  hillsides 
of  spring  beauty  and  violets  are  eager  for 
his  approach,  the  flowers  in  every  meadow 
and  woodland  are  awaiting  his  alchemy. 
Already  the  willow  catkins  have  stirred  at 
his  caress.  The  shrubby  dogwood  has  felt 
his  force,  and  kindles  into  flame.  The 
wands  of  the  golden  willow  are  gilded 
anew;  the  red  horn  of  the  great  aroid  is 
peering  from  the  mold. 

Think  of  his  task!  To  clear  the  earth  of 
its  coverlet  of  snow  and  clarify  the  streams; 
to  burst  the  chrysalis  and  put  forth  the  leaves ; 
to  push  up  the  grass  blades  and  perfume  the 
flowers ; to  breathe  upon  and  resuscitate  all 
the  dormant  world  of  vegetable  and  ani- 


190 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


mal  life.  The  leaflets  upon  leaflets  and  fern 
fronds  upon  fern  fronds  the  sunshine  must 
unfold;  the  acres  of  grain  and  the  clover 
fields  it  must  fall  upon ; the  myriad  fruits  it 
must  ripen! 

Lo!  how  marvelous  the  task;  a smile 
and  a summons  for  all! 

Down  in  the  hollows  of  the  wood  where 
the  wind-flowers  grow,  under  the  meadow- 
grasses  where  the  blue  flag  and  lily  bulbs 
wait,  below  the  waters  to  bid  the  marsh 
marigolds  and  arrowheads  rise,  into  the  far- 
thest swamps  where  the  orchid  hides,  in 
waste  places  where  tares  and  teazles  crowd, 
on  countless  hillsides  and  in  countless  val- 
leys must  the  sunbeams  penetrate  and 
quicken  to  awakened  life.  And  all  this 
gradually,  little  by  little,  day  by  day,  hour 
by  hour,  bringing  forth  each  blossom  at 
its  appointed  time,  giving  the  butterfly  his 
wings,  providing  the  bee  his  sustenance. 
What  is  there  here  on  earth  to  compare  with 
the  miracle  of  returning  spring,  the  labor  and 
strength  of  the  Sun?  The  power  of  Her- 
cules a trillion  fold  is  concentrated  in  the 
rays  that  are  loosing  the  fetters  of  the  streams 
to-day.  Lo!  the  marvel  of  the  renascent 
year,  when  Earth  renews  her  youth  and 
Nature  is  born  again. 

The  March  days  pass,  and  more  and 
more  is  the  Sun’s  strength  felt.  His  vassals, 
the  showers  and  the  south  winds,  he  calls 


Footsteps  of  Spring. 


191 


to  aid  him  in  his  task  ; and  at  once  the 
grasses  and  larches  turn  green  and  arbutus 
and  bloodroot  are  fanned  into  bloom.  A 
mile  away  the  sunshine  lights  the  hills;  a 
league  away  it  burnishes  and  warms  the 
river.  Daily  the  beams  stream  upon  the 
earth  and  reveal  fresh  treasures.  Swiftly  a 
shadow  steals  along  the  hills.  The  tem- 
pered April  rain  falls  from  the  gray  April 
sky.  Responsive,  the  sward  assumes  a 
brighter  green,  the  daffodil  a richer  gold. 
The  sap  mounts  to  the  topmost  branches 
and  penetrates  the  minutest  twigs.  Day  by 
day  the  naked  sprays  are  feathered  by  the 
pushing  buds.  A scarf  of  green  is  flung 
across  the  copse.  The  shadblow  silvers  the 
woods,  columbine  and  cranesbill  throng  the 
slopes,  and  hepatica  and  dog-tooth  violet 
nod  to  the  quickening  breeze  of  spring. 

The  spring  days  pass,  but  the  miracle 
remains;  hourly  a new  marvel  is  wrought 
by  the  sunlight  and  the  shower.  The  oriole 
appears  and  orchards  burst  into  bloom ; the 
wood-thrush  sings  and  the  dogwood  and 
wild  thorn  join  the  flowering  pageant.  The 
warm  perfumed  breath  of  the  new  year 
floats  upon  the  air— the  breath  of  flower 
and  grass  and  expanding  bud.  Nature’s 
color-box  opens  anew  ; her  brush  is  laid 
upon  each  petal  with  what  consummate 
address  and  variety! — pink  upon  the  petals 
of  the  peach,  a flush  on  the  cheek  of  the 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


19  2 


apple  bloom,  a gloss  of  gold  upon  the  but- 
tercup. The  Trillium  thrusts  up  its  snowy 
triangles,  the  gold-thread  its  white  stars, 
and  banks  become  purple  with  violets. 
Tiny  polypody  and  oak-fern  replume  the 
stumps  and  bowlders.  From  the  frost- 
smitten  meadows  and  waste  places  rise 
fresh  pennants  of  green.  Unfurled  is  the 
flag  of  spring.  And  the  hues  and  odors 
that  are  still  in  embryo  and  the  sunshine  is 
preparing — all  the  sweets  of  June  and  the 
infinite  beauties  of  midsummer,  the  wealth 
of  the  roses,  the  clover  bloom,  the  laby- 
rinthine tangle  of  wild  flowers,  even  to  the 
asters  and  colored  leaf  of  autumn.  The 
foam  and  surge  of  the  apple  bloom  are  but 
a wave  of  the  color  and  fragrance  that  is  to 
be.  /Eons  ago  the  March  sunlight  fell  upon 
the  flowers  and  primeval  nature.  Vegeta- 
tion welcomed  it  then  as  it  welcomes  it 
now.  Next  year  and  the  next  year  and 
centuries  hence  will  it  fall  upon  the  earth 
and  work  out  the  miracle  of  spring.  Is  it 
not  new  and  ever  beautiful,  this  vernal  res- 
urrection ? That  we,  too,  possessed  this 
subtle  alchemy  and  might  extract  this  elixir 
from  the  April  sun! 

How  the  wings  of  the  doves  glisten  and 
mirror  the  rays  as  I watch  them  floating  by 
my  windows ! I love  my  flock  of  doves — 
the  dove  is  so  associated  with  the  relent- 
ment  of  the  elements  and  the  olive  leaf  of 


Footsteps  of  Spring. 


193 


spring.  A monotonous  life  they  lead  in 
their  diurnal  circlings  round  the  barn  and 
their  self-same  route  over  their  circum- 
scribed domain  — a monotonous  life,  at 
least,  it  appears  to  the  observer,  while 
probably  the  very  reverse  to  them.  Every 
load  of  grain  which  comes  to  the  neighbor- 
ing barns  they  may  note  from  their  vantage- 
ground  and  meditate  upon  its  special  vir- 
tues. The  droppings  of  the  barley  now 
being  stored  in  yonder  granary  undoubted- 
ly form  as  weighty  a subject  to  them  as  the 
fluctuations  in  the  market  do  to  the  malt- 
ster himself.  Then  the  incertitude  which 
must  attend  the  obtaining  of  their  supply 
of  food  naturally  furnishes  them  with  a con- 
stant source  of  speculation ; besides,  who  but 
they  themselves  may  know  what  petty  bick- 
erings and  jealousies  form  the  daily  routine 
of  their  inner  life  ? The  jaunty  leader  of  the 
flock  who  curves  his  iris  neck  so  proudly 
may  be  the  humblest  of  hen-pecked  fathers  in 
the  privacy  of  his  home ; and  what  appears 
to  be  the  approving  cooings  of  devoted 
dames  may  be  only  a prosaic  homily  on  the 
part  of  his  exacting  wives. 

My  flock  of  doves  seem  alway  idling 
and  courting  the  sunbeam.  Now,  appar- 
ently, they  are  drifting  aimlessly  upon  the 
air  ; again  they  veer  suddenly,  to  turn  a 
gleaming  wing  for  me  to  admire.  With 
what  indescribable  grace  the  circling  forms 


194 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


hover  over  the  eaves  after  each  of  their 
tours  of  investigation,  the  swiftly  fanning 
wings  seeming  to  cease  their  motion  simulta- 
neously as  the  flock  alights,  and  once  more 
preens  its  iris  in  the  sun.  Indecision  is  a 
characteristic  of  my  flock  of  doves — always 
uncertain  of  the  direction  they  would  take, 
and  apparently  never  satisfied  for  more  than 
a passing  moment  with  their  surroundings. 
No  sooner  have  they  flown  to  the  meadow 
beyond  the  copse  than  they  are  back  again ; 
and  scarcely  have  they  perched  upon  the 
roof  or  discovered  fresh  pickings  ere  they 
take  flight  in  another  direction,  to  return  as 
quickly.  Is  it  that  they,  like  the  rest  of  us, 
are  never  content,  and  that  much  must  have 
more  ? I should  like  to  quote  them  a lyric 
from  John  Wilbye’s  Second  Set  of  Madri- 
gals, which  possibly  they  may  not  have 
heard : 

I live,  and  yet  methinks  I do  not  breathe; 

I thirst  and  drink,  1 drink  and  thirst  again; 

I sleep,  and  yet  do  dream  I am  awake; 

I hope  for  that  1 have;  I have  and  want; 

I sing  and  sigh;  I love  and  hate  at  once. 

Oh  tell  me,  restless  soul,  what  uncouth  jar 
Doth  cause  in  store  such  want,  in  peace  such 
war  ? 


RISPOSTA. 

There  is  a jewel  which  no  Indian  mines 
Can  buy,  no  chymic  art  can  counterfeit; 

It  makes  men  rich  in  greatest  poverty, 

Makes  water  wine,  turns  wooden  cups  to  gold, 


Footsteps  of  Spring. 


*95 


The  homely  whistle  to  sweet  music’s  strain : 

Seldom  it  comes,  to  few  from  heaven  sent, 

That  much  in  little,  all  in  naught — Content.* 

The  first  of  the  migratory  flocks  have 
come.  Is  it  the  robins  or  the  bluebirds 
first,  or  the  omnipresent  song-sparrow 
scattering  his  notes  like  a shower?  Warm 
as  the  scarlet  of  his  wings  is  the  greeting  of 
the  starling  from  his  haven  in  the  reeds  ; 
and  ah  ! how  sweet  the  carol  of  the  mead- 
ow-lark from  the  distant  fields.  Again  I 


* The  student  of  French  poetical  literature  will 
notice  the  marked  resemblance  in  expression  of  a por- 
tion of  this  lovely  lyric  of  fourteen  lines  and  the  fol- 
lowing prettily  turned  quator^ain  by  a singer  of  the 
sixteenth  century  : 

Ie  vis,  ie  meurs:  ie  me  brule  & me  noye, 

I’ay  chaut  estreme  en  endurant  froidure: 

La  vie  m’est  & trop  molle  & trop  dure. 

Lay  grans  ennuis  entremeslez  de  ioye: 

Tout  a un  coup  ie  ris  & ie  larmoye, 

Et  en  plaisir  maint  grief  tourment  i ’endure: 

Mon  bien  s’en  va,  & a iamais  il  dure: 

Tout  en  un  coup  ie  seiche  & ie  verdoye. 

Ainsi  Amour  inconstamment  me  meine: 

Et  quand  ie  pense  auoir  plus  de  douleur, 

Sans  y penser  ie  me  treuue  hors  de  peine. 

Puis  quand  ie  croy  ma  ioye  estre  certeine, 

Et  estre  au  haut  de  mon  desire  heur, 

11  me  remet  en  mon  premier  malheur. 

CEuures  de  Louize  Labe  Lionnoize.  A Lion  par  lan 
de  Tournes,  M.D.LVI.  Auec  Priuilege  du  Roy. 

13 


196  The  Story  of  my  House. 


hear  the  warble  which  the  blackbird 
dropped  when  flying  over  the  autumnal 
stubbles,  only  it  has  a cheeriness  that  is 
alone  brought  forth  by  sunshine  and  the 
lengthening  days.  Little  flutings  and  grace 
notes  rise  from  sheltered  thickets  and  sunny 
hollows — assemblages  of  snow-birds,  Can- 
ada sparrows,  and  red  - polls  practicing 
their  Fruehlingslied.  The  white-throated 
sparrow’s  silver  strain  I hear  on  every  side, 
the  very  beat  of  the  spring-tide  ana  song 
of  the  sunshine.  Even  the  voice  of  the 
crow  has  a softer  tone.  From  my  study 
windows  I watch  the  sable  hosts  returning 
to  their  roost  in  the  distant  wood.  I see 
them  slowly  filing  by  during  the  winter,  at 
the  appointed  hour,  but  less  numerously, 
and  seldom  audibly.  Now  they  voice  their 
passage ; their  shadows  cast  a sound.  From 
time  immemorial  they  have  occupied  a 
roost  in  the  same  wood,  their  numbers 
apparently  neither  increasing  nor  diminish- 
ing. The  first  squads  fly  over  early  in  the 
evening,  re-enforcements  arriving  continual- 
ly until  dusk.  They  come  from  all  directions, 
the  total  assemblage  numbering  perhaps  a 
thousand.  Above  the  tree-tops,  for  half  an 
hour  before  dark,  there  ascends  a weird 
chorus  of  evening,  composed  of  every  shade 
of  corvine  basso , and  basso  profondo. 
Borne  from  afar  on  the  still  evening  air,  the 
hoarse  notes  come  to  me  mellowed  and 


Footsteps  of  Spring. 


197 


subdued — a fitting  ave  of  the  darkening 
day. 

Later,  the  first  swallow  races  by,  with 
the  first  moth  in  his  bill,  urged  on  the 
wider  wings  of  the  south  wind — the  first 
swallows,  rather;  for  there  is  not  only  one 
but  a score  coursing  through  the  ether,  ex- 
ultant in  the  freedom  of  existence.  Do 
they,  indeed,  drop  from  the  sky  some  bland 
spring  morning — spirits  of  dead  children 
revisiting  their  homes — as  the  fanciful  Ro- 
man legend  has  it?  How  swiftly  they 
cleave  the  air  with  their  forked  tail  and 
sickle-shaped  wings  ! We  marvel  at  the 
soaring  of  the  hawk,  balancing  himself  in 
an  ever-widening  and  ascending  circle, 
ever  tracing  the  curve  of  beauty.  We 
wonder  at  the  agility  of  the  humming-bird, 
and  his  power  of  suspension  in  mid-air 
over  a flower.  But  the  hawk  barely  flaps 
a pinion,  sustained  through  some  inexpli- 
cable agency  in  overcoming  the  natural 
force  of  gravity;  and  the  humming-bird 
every  little  while  rests  from  the  friction  of 
the  air.  Is  not  the  perpetual  flight  of  the 
swallow,  his  unceasing  motion  and  inces- 
sant turning  upon  himself  a greater  wonder  ? 

I stand  on  the  margin  of  the  stream  just 
before  an  impending  shower,  when  a con- 
course of  hirundines  is  intent  upon  the 
capture  of  its  prey.  The  surface  is  dimpled 
by  the  constant  rising  of  feeding  trout,  and 


g8  The  Story  of  my  House. 


brushed  every  now  and  then  by  a bird 
drinking  on  the  wing.  It  is  a favorite 
haunt  of  both  fly-catchers  and  swallows, 
lured  by  the  rich  insect  fauna  that  congre- 
gate above  the  still  expanse  of  water,  the 
ephemerina  dancing  their  joyous  dance  of 
an  hour.  The  stream  is  scarcely  a rod  and 
a half  wide.  It  is  almost  overarched  with 
bushes  and  trees,  and  abounds  with  curves. 
There  are  at  least  forty  swallows  hawking 
over  it,  all  chasing  above  the  glassy  surface, 
ceaselessly  coming  and  going,  swift  as  mis- 
siles sprung  from  a sling.  Yet  not  a cat- 
kin of  the  alder  tangle  or  blade  of  the 
rushes  is  so  much  as  grazed  by  a wing; 
not  a barbule  of  one  bird  ruffled  by  the 
feather  of  another,  amid  all  their  lightning 
turns  and  curvatures.  It  is  the  same  in 
their  chase  over  a field  when  attracted  close 
to  the  earth  by  insects.  It  is  the  same  in 
their  coursing  through  the  air  which  I see 
through  my  windows,  only  they  have  but 
their  fellows,  and  no  other  objects  to  avoid. 
Yet  even  then  their  flight  is  a perpetual 
wonder. 

Sacred  to  the  penates  the  swallow  was 
rightly  held;  it  were  a Vandal  who  would 
harm  them.  Beloved  wherever  they  roam 
the  sky,  Frocne  has,  nevertheless,  been 
comparatively  neglected  by  the  Muse,  while 
Philomela  has  received  the  greater  homage. 
Is  not  the  swallow’s  warble  sweet,  asso- 


Footsteps  of  Spring. 


199 


dated  as  it  is  not  only  with  the  swallow’s 
beauty,  but  with  our  very  houses  and  barns 
and  the  blue  sky  that  bends  above  them  ? 
Best  known  of  all  individual  “pursuers  of 
the  sun  ” is  the  bird  mentioned  in  the  fifth 
stanza  of  the  Elegy : 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed ; 

and  his  companion  of  the  Winter’s  Tale, 
wheeling  between  daffodils  and  violets. 
Keats’s  line  is  among  the  most  expressive 
that  have  been  written  on  the  bird : 

Swallows  obeying  the  south  summer’s  call. 

Hood’s  simile  is  also  fine: 

Summer  is  gone  on  swallow’s  wings. 

Gay,  in  The  Shepherd’s  Walk,  has  the 
swallow  do  graceful  duty  as  a weather- 
prophet: 

When  swallows  fleet  soar  high  and  sport  in  air, 

He  told  us  that  the  welkin  would  be  clear. 

Athenseus  has  referred  as  happily  to  the 
bird  as  any  of  the  old  Greek  poets  in  a frag- 
ment, The  Song  of  the  Swallow : 

The  swallow  is  come,  she  is  come  to  bring 
The  laughing  hours  of  the  blithesome  spring— 

The  youth  of  the  year  and  its  sunshine  bright — 
With  her  back  all  dark  and  her  breast  all  white. 

From  the  Fables  of  Lessing  I learn  that 
the  swallow  was  originally  as  harmonious 


200 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


and  melodious  a songster  as  the  nightingale, 
until,  becoming  wearied  of  dwelling  in  lone- 
ly thickets  to  be  heard  and  admired  only  by 
peasants  and  shepherds,  she  forsook  her 
humble  friends  and  took  flight  to  the  town. 
But,  in  the  mad  rush  of  the  city,  men  found 
no  time  to  listen  to  her  heavenly  lay,  for- 
getting which,  by  and  by,  instead  of  sing- 
ing she  learned  to  build. 

I recall  no  reference  to  the  swallow, 
however,  comparable  to  Charles  Tennyson 
Turner’s,  in  one  of  his  many  lovely  sonnets. 
Wind  on  the  Corn.  Not  only  the  swallow 
himself  is  there,  wheeling  and  curveting  in 
all  his  buoyant  grace,  but  the  wind  which 
accelerates  his  speed,  and  the  rippling  wheat 
field  he  loves  to  woo.  The  sonnet  must  be 
read  in  its  entirety,  and  to  recall  it  calls  for 
no  apology;  it  becomes  the  more  beautiful 
the  more  frequently  it  is  read : 

Full  often  as  I rove  by  path  or  stile 
To  watch  the  harvest  ripening  in  the  vale, 

Slowly  and  sweetly,  like  a growing  smile — 

A smile  that  ends  in  laughter — the  quick  gale 
Upon  the  breadths  of  gold-green  wheat  descends; 

While  still  the  swallow,  with  unbaffled  grace, 
About  his  viewless  quarry  dips  and  bends — 

And  all  the  fine  excitement  of  the  chase 
Lies  in  the  hunter’s  beauty;  in  the  eclipse 
Of  that  brief  shadow  how  the  barley’s  beard 
Tilts  at  the  passing  gloom,  and  wild  rose  dips 
Among  the  white-tops  in  the  ditches  reared; 

And  hedgerow’s  flowery  breast  of  lacework  stirs 
Faintly  in  that  full  wind  that  rod£§  the  outstanding  firs. 


Footsteps  of  Spring . 


201 


Truly  Boileau  was  right  in  his  affirmation — 
a faultless  sonnet  is  in  itself  worth  a long 
poem  ; and  Asselineau — fine  sonnets,  like 
all  beautiful  things  in  this  world,  are  with- 
out price.  No  less  beautiful  is  Turner’s 
companion  sonnet,  A Summer  Twilight — 
an  intaglio  cut  in  green  jade— where  the 
bat’s  flitting  shadow,  instead  of  the  swal- 
low’s flashing  wing,  imparts  life  and  motion 
to  the  scene. 

The  first  lady-bugs,  called  forth  by  the 
grateful  warmth,  have  left  their  hibernacle. 
The  first  wasps  and  blue -bottle  flies  are 
buzzing  and  bumping  against  the  south 
window  panes.  I catch  the  first  tremolo 
of  the  toads  and  piercing  treble  of  the  hy- 
lodes. 

My  first  green  bullfrog,  too,  “whom 
the  Muses  have  ordained  to  sing  for  aye.” 
Again  1 hear  his  grand  diapason,  just  as  I 
heard  it  last  year  and  every  year  before  as 
long  as  I can  remember.  Apparently  from 
the  same  place  in  the  marsh,  amid  the 
pond-weeds  and  water-plantains,  where  he 
suns  himself  and  dozes  by  day,  and  launches 
his  maestoso  at  night.  I wonder  if  it  is  really 
the  same  frog,  with  his  great  yellow  ears 
and  blinking  eyes,  and  if  ever  he  grows  old  ? 
It  is  the  old  voice  from  the  old  place,  more 
powerful  and  sonorous  than  the  voices  of 
his  fellows.  What  a fine  time  he  has  of  it 
-—slumbering  in  the  ooze  throughout  the 


202 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


winter,  while  I am  shaking  with  the  cold; 
cool  and  comfortable  throughout  the  sum- 
mer, when  I am  sweltering  with  the  heat; 
with  nothing  to  do  but  bask  and  bathe,  or 
thrust  out  his  long  tongue  for  the  flies  that 
are  foolish  enough  to  think  him  asleep.  I 
heard  him  just  two  days  earlier  this  year 
than  last,  May  14,  ten  days  later  than  the 
first  swallow  to  make  his  presence  known. 
It  is  said  he  must  thrice  put  on  his  specta- 
cles ere  he  permanently  deserts  his  couch  in 
the  mire — i.  e.,  look  through  the  ice  three 
times  before  he  rises  with  triumphant  song. 
He  is  invariably  the  latest  of  the  spring 
choristers,  and  at  once  his  magnificent 
basso  completes  the  vernal  pastoral. 

I wish  I might  obtain  the  recipe  of  his 
spring  bitters.  Is  it  water-cresses  or  water-  * 
plantain  ? It  is  evident  he  grows  younger 
with  advancing  years.  “The  croaking  of 
frogs,”  said  Martin  Luther,  “edifies  noth- 
ing at  all;  it  is  mere  sophistry  and  fruit- 
less.” But,  unlike  the  frog,  Luther  did 
not  relish  a Diet  of  Worms;  and  I am  not 
sure  that  the  woodcuts  of  the  old  reformer 
do  not  resemble  the  head  of  my  friend  of 
the  swamp,  whose  melody  floats  so  se- 
renely through  the  summer  dusks.  Hor- 
ace, generally  correct,  was  wrong  with  re- 
spect to  the  frog : 

. . . Ranaeque  palustres 
Avertunt  somnos. 


Footsteps  of  Spring. 


20 3 


The  frog’s  is  a somnolent  voice  if  heard  at 
a proper  distance.  One  should  not  expect 
harmony  from  wind  instruments  in  the  first 
row  of  the  orchestra  chairs.  If  one’s  frogs 
annoy  one,  he  should  remove  his  swamp 
or  his  house.  The  orchestra  of  Nature  calls 
for  its  bassoon  and  its  cymbals — the  bull- 
frog and  the  cicada. 

A new  poet  has  recently  appeared  in  the 
Dominion.  Among  his  many  poems  of 
pronounced  freshness  and  beauty  is  one  on 
the  frog — more  strictly  speaking,  five  po- 
ems, for  the  panegyric  consists  of  five  con- 
nected sonnets.  Not  alone  does  this  grace- 
ful lyrist  and  keen  interpreter  of  Nature  place 
the  frog  as  the  grand  diurnal  musician  of 
spring,  but  he  accords  him  a no  less  exalted 
place  as  a soothing  minstrel  of  the  estival 
night.  I should  be  guilty  of  ingratitude  to 
my  resonant  friend  of  the  swamp  did  I not 
append  the  fourth  sonnet  of  the  musical 
quintet : 

And  when  day  passed  and  over  heaven’s  height, 

Thin  with  the  many  stars  and  cool  with  dew, 

The  fingers  of  the  deep  hours  slowly  drew 
The  wonder  of  the  ever-healing  night, 

No  grief  or  loneliness  or  rapt  delight 

Or  weight  of  silence  ever  brought  to  you 
Slumber  or  rest;  only  your  voices  grew 
More  high  and  solemn ; slowly,  with  hushed  flight, 
Ye  saw  the  echoing  hours  go  by,  long-drawn, 

Nor  ever  stirred,  watching  with  fathomless  eyes 
And  with  your  countless  clear  antiphonies 
Filling  the  earth  and  heaven,  even  till  dawn, 


204 


The  Story  of  my  House . 


Last  risen,  found  you  with  its  first  pale  gleam, 

Still  with  soft  throats  unaltered  in  your  dream.* 

Clearly  Horace  was  at  fault.  The  Greeks 
thought  better  of  the  musical  piper  of  the 
marsh ; but  it  has  remained  for  the  Canadian 
poet  to  chant  more  sweetly  of  him  than 
Theocritus  and  Aristophanes.* 

After  the  treble  of  the  hylodes,  suddenly 
the  first  bee  hums  by  in  quest  of  the  await- 
ing flower.  The  first  butterfly  flutters  past, 
the  first  night-hawk  booms,  the  first  bat 
hunts  against  the  crimson  afterglow,  and, 
behold!  it  is  spring.  “The  weather  of  the 
Renouveau/J  old  Ronsard  hymned  it — the 
miracle  of  the  sunshine,  the  south  wind,  and 
the  shower. 


* Among  the  Millet,  and  other  Poems.  By  Archi- 
bald Lampman.  Ottawa:  J.  Durie  and  Son.  1888. 
pP.  i5i. 


XI. 

MAGICIANS  OF  THE  SHELVES. 


i. 

Around  the  hardest  cark  and  toil  lies  the  imagina- 
tive world  of  the  poets  and  romancists,  and  thither  we 
sometimes  escape  to  snatch  a mouthful  of  serener  air. 
— Alexander  Smith,  Dreamthorp. 

Let  that  which  I borrow  be  survaied,  and  then  tell 
me  whether  I have  made  good  choice  of  ornaments  to 
beautify  and  set  forth  the  invention.  ...  I number 
not  my  borrowings,  but  1 weigh  them.  And  if  I would 
have  made  their  number  to  prevaile,  I would  have  had 
twice  as  many. — Montaigne,  Of  Bookes. 

f my  rugs  and  porcelains  are  a 
study  and  delight  in  color,  what 
shall  I say  of  my  books,  these 
manifold  colors  and  hues  of  the 
mind  that  rejoice  the  inward 
eye  ? When  what  Francois  de  Sales  terms 
a “dryness  of  soul”  comes  over  me,  are 
not  the  genii  of  the  library  alway  ready  to 
instruct  and  charm  ? Not  a myth,  but  a 
reality  is  the  fabled  lamp  of  Aladdin,  lumi- 
nous still  on  many  an  immortal  author’s 
page. 


206 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


“ Un  ton  feu , des  livres , et  des  plumes , 
que  de  ressources  contre  T ennui!  **  ex- 
claims De  Maistre.  With  a well-chosen 
library,  even  sickness  loses  its  sting,  and 
often  a good  book  may  prove  a more  effi- 
cient remedial  agent  than  a physician’s 
draught.  Somewhere  among  the  volumes 
there  exists  a balm  for  nearly  every  ill — 
books  to  stimulate  and  books  to  soothe, 
books  for  instruction  and  books  for  ennui. 
Every  mood  of  the  mind  should  be  reflected 
from  the  library  shelves,  just  as  Bacon  holds 
it  that  in  the  royal  ordering  of  gardens 
there  ought  to  be  gardens  for  every  month 
in  the  year.  Books  there  should  be  in 
abundance  that  may  be  read  again  and 
again ; books  that  may  be  taken  in  install- 
ments, every  page  of  each  one  of  which  is 
a golden  page ; books  to  pore  over  as  a miser 
conns  his  gold;  books  to  be  dipped  into,  or 
looked  at  “with  half-shut  eyes.”  From 
each  page  or  each  chapter  of  a good  book 
there  should  be  extracted  a beautiful  thought, 
as  the  wind  in  passing  through  a wood 
draws  from  each  tree  a musical  note.  That 
we  possessed  the  memory  of  Scheherazade 
and  could  remember  the  books  we  have 
read  ! 

No  doubt,  books  are  the  great  instruct- 
ors, though  Gautier’s  idea  is  an  excellent 
one,  that  each  college  possess  a well- 
equipped  ship  to  make  the  voyage  around 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves.  207 


the  world  to  read  the  universal  book,  the 
best  written  book  of  all.  Unfortunately, 
every  one  may  not  sail  round  the  world, 
but  very  many  of  us  must  be  content,  like 
De  Maistre,  with  a voyage  around  our 
room.  And  wise,  far-seeing  Pascal  long 
ago  told  us  that  nearly  all  our  troubles  arose 
from  our  not  knowing  how  to  remain  in 
our  own  room.  Perhaps,  on  the  whole, 
this  is  among  the  pleasantest  ways  of  jour- 
neying. You  have  but  to  step  on  board 
one  of  the  numerous  crafts  in  waiting,  and 
with  no  further  trouble  than  that  of  turning 
over  the  pages,  set  sail  for  any  port  of  the 
universe.  All  this  with  a merely  nominal 
price  for  passage,  and  relieved  of  every  dis- 
comfort of  travel. 

May  I not,  with  Symonds,  muse  upon 
the  staircase  of  the  Propylaea  and  wander 
through  the  theatre  of  Dionysus  ? Do  I 
not  visit  the  most  romantic  of  all  castles 
with  Thomson  ? and  what  wood  so  cool 
and  shadowy  to  stroll  in  as  the  forest  of 
Arden  ? With  Jennings  I ramble  among 
the  Derbyshire  hills  and  breast  the  breeze 
of  the  Sussex  Downs;  with  Hamerton  I 
float  down  the  Unknown  River;  and  with 
Higginson  rock  in  a wherry  and  lounge 
about  the  Oldport  wharves.  Arm  in  arm 
with  sweet  Mariette,  Murger  again  leads  me 
through  the  Latin  Quarter  and  the  old  lilac- 
scented  gardens  of  the  Luxembourg.  Re- 


208 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


posing  in  my  easy  chair,  I may  almost 
make  the  tour  of  the  world  in  the  sprightli- 
est,  most  instructive  company  it  is  possible 
to  imagine — Dumas  pere,  in  his  inimitable 
Impressions  de  Voyage,  is  my  guide,  phi- 
losopher, and  friend.  The  delightful  dinners 
he  invites  me  to,  the  delicious  wines  he 
sets  before  me,  the  sparkling  anecdotes 
that  are  ever  bubbling  from  his  entrancing 
pen  ! I mount  his  easy  Pegasus  with  De 
Amicis,  and  exchange  the  blinding  snow  for 
soft  Andalusian  sunshine.  What  an  enter- 
taining raconteur  I have  in  Francis  Francis 
to  explain  the  traditions  of  manor  and  castle, 
and  discourse  upon  British  scenery;  and 
what  lovely  trout  I catch  when,  rod  in 
hand,  I follow  him  By  Lake  and  River  ! 
Hawthorne  raises  his  wand,  and  I am  saun- 
tering through  the  Borghese  gardens.  With 
Jefferies  I accompany  lovely  Amaryllis  at 
the  Fair;  and  with  Robinson  I wander 
through  an  Indian  Garden  and  listen  to  the 
bulbul’s  song.  There  is  no  dust,  the 
sun  does  not  glare,  I require  no  waterproof 
or  courier  in  these  easy  voyages.  I turn 
the  enchanted  pages,  and  the  sun  shines  for 
me  at  just  the  right  angle.  My  rambles 
never  fatigue,  however  long  the  lane  or 
steep  the  hillside.  I need  not  worry  over 
the  arrival  or  departure  of  trains,  dispute 
with  landlords,  or  bother  with  luggage.  At 
a signal,  my  ship  is  in  waiting,  ready  to 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves.  209 


stop  at  the  port  I designate;  in  an  hour  a 
smooth  roadbed  carries  me  across  a king- 
dom, without  a delay,  without  a jar.  There 
can  be  nothing  more  delightful  than  these 
imaginary  journeys. 

“ The  ever-widening  realm  of  books  ! ” 
Over  two  centuries  ago,  echoing  the  voice 
of  the  ancients,  Henry  Vaughan  decried 
against  their  constantly  increasing  multi- 
tude: 

...  As  great  a store 

Have  we  of  books  as  bees  of  herbs,  or  more; 

And  the  great  task  to  try,  then  know  the  good, 

To  discern  weeds  and  judge  of  wholesome  food, 

Is  a rare  scant  performance. 

What  a sifting  there  must  be  among  them 
some  day,  as  the  volumes  continue  to  accu- 
mulate—the  mediocre  cast  aside  to  make 
room  for  the  meritorious  ! Will  there  not 
eventually  be  some  invention  to  preserve  old 
books,  an  enamel  for  musty  tomes,  as  wood 
is  vulcanized  or  bodies  are  embalmed  ? Or 
must  many  works  now  existing  in  numer- 
ous volumes  be  reduced  to  extracts  to  find 
shelf-room  for  them  all  ? 

But  to  those  who  may  be  anxious  re- 
garding the  accumulation  of  books,  De 
Mercier  offers  this  consolation:  “ The  inde- 
fatigable hand  of  the  grocers,  the  druggists, 
the  butter  merchants,  etc.,  destroy  as  many 
books  and  brochures  daily  as  are  printed ; 
the  paper-gatherers  come  next;  and  all 


210 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


these  hands,  happily  destructive,  preserve 
the  equilibrium.  Without  them  the  mass 
of  printed  paper  would  increase  to  an  in- 
convenient degree,  and  in  the  end  chase  all 
the  proprietors  and  tenants  out  of  their 
houses.  The  same  proportion  is  to  be  ob- 
served between  the  making  of  books  and 
their  decomposition  as  between  life  and 
death — a balm  I address  to  those  that  the 
multitude  of  books  worries  or  grieves.” 

What  works  will  survive,  and  what 
books  shall  we  read?  “If  the  writers  of 
the  brazen  age  are  most  suggestive  to  thee, 
confine  thyself  to  them,  and  leave  those  of 
the  Augustan  age  to  dust  and  the  book- 
worms,” says  the  transcendentalist  of  Wal- 
den. “ Something  like  the  woodland 
sounds,”  the  same  author  observes,  “will 
be  heard  to  echo  through  the  leaves  of  a 
good  book.  Sometimes  I hear  the  fresh 
emphatic  note  of  the  oven-bird  and  am 
tempted  to  turn  many  pages;  sometimes 
the  hurried  chuckling  sound  of  the  squirrel 
when  he  dives  into  the  wall.”  “ In  science 
read  by  preference  the  newest  works;  in 
literature  the  oldest.  The  classic  literature 
is  always  modern.  New  books  revive  and 
redecorate  old  ideas;  old  books  suggest 
and  invigorate  new  ideas,”  says  Bulwer. 
For  knowledge  of  the  world  and  literature, 
for  polished  grace  of  diction,  for  elevated 
and  refined  thought,  and  for  the  rhythm  of 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves. 


2 II 


beautiful  prose,  Bulwer  might  have  called 
attention  to  his  own  essays,  individual  in 
the  language.  The  publisher  is  yet  to  be 
thanked  who  will  present  Life,  Literature, 
and  Manners  in  a worthy  and  convenient 
form. 

We  read  and  learn  and  forget  from  the 
classics  and  the  modern  novelist  as  well. 
I sometimes  wonder  how  posterity  will 
regard  the  great  writers  of  the  present 
generation — whether  Holmes  will  hold  a 
more  exalted  place  a century  hence,  or  the 
Scarlet  Letter  fade.  Will  a mightier 
Shakespeare  rise,  and  a sweeter  Tennyson 
sing  ? And  instead  of  sending  posterity  to 
Addison  and  Goldsmith  for  beautiful  style, 
will  the  twenty-first  century  mentor  refer 
the  reader  to  a Spectator  of  an  age  that  is 
yet  to  dawn  ? 

The  multitude  of  books  one  should 
read  ! It  takes  one’s  breath  away  to  think 
of  the  titles.  They  are  as  innumerable  as 
the  buttercups  of  the  meadow.  Think  of 
them  ! the  miles  and  leagues  of  folios, 
quartos,  octavos,  duodecimos,  1 6,  1 8,  24, 
and  32  mos.  on  every  conceivable  subject  that 
are  sent  out  every  year  ! The  rows  and 
rows  of  shelves,  fathoms  deep,  of  old  books 
in  numberless  editions,  cut  and  uncut,  in 
cloth,  parchment,  sheep,  pigskin,  and  calf, 
reposing  in  the  book-stalls  and  libraries  ! 
Books  grave  and  gay,  comic  and  serious, 
14 


212 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


storehouses  of  knowledge  that  are  con- 
stantly shifting  hands ; others  precious  be- 
yond price  that  are  buried  out  of  sight, 
their  beautiful  thoughts  unread  ! The  tons 
and  tons  of  printed  pages,  in  poetry  and 
prose,  awake  and  asleep  in  the  public  and 
private  libraries  of  the  great  cities  ! They 
are  as  clover-tops  in  a field. 

‘ ‘ The  best  hundred  books  ! ” Who  shall 
single  them  out  from  the  mighty  multitude  ? 
It  is  like  attempting  to  name  the  most 
beautiful  flower,  the  most  lovely  woman — 
no  one  may  know  them  all,  and  every  one 
has  his  preferences.  In  life,  art,  and  the 
study  of  literature  it  is  at  best  a difficult 
question  to  point  out  the  right  way,  as 
there  are  numerous  considerations  which 
require  to  be  left  largely  to  the  discrimina- 
tion of  the  person  most  concerned. 

To  decide  on  the  merits  of  a work  one 
may  not  take  another’s  opinion ; one  must 
needs  read,  mark,  and  digest  it  for  himself. 
The  reader  who  blindly  submits  to  the  dic- 
tum of  another  rarely  does  so  to  advantage. 
Far  better  to  please  one’s  self  and  scout  the 
arbiters.  Every  person  should  form  his 
own  estimate  of  the  merits  or  demerits  of  a 
work.  When  Robert  Buchanan  terms  the 
author  of  such  exquisite  verse  as  Les  Taches 
Jaunes,  and  such  finished  prose  as  La  Morte 
Amoureuse  “a  hair-dresser’s  dummy  of  a 
stylist,”  how  is  one  to  be  governed  in  the 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves.  2 13 


choice  of  his  reading,  save  from  the  stand- 
point of  his  own  taste  ! Because  Sir  Ora- 
cle admires  Gil  Bias  and  the  Pantagruel,  is 
no  reason  why  you  should  do  so,  and  be- 
cause a Taine  may  proclaim  Pope  a pur- 
loiner  and  a mere  juggler  of  phrase  it  does 
not  necessarily  follow  that  the  Essay  on 
Man  is  not  one  of  the  brightest  jewels  of 
the  language.  Wisest  is  he  who  maps 
out  his  own  course  of  study  and  reading. 
The  predication  of  others  can  not  make 
that  pleasing  to  him  which  is  in  utter  vari- 
ance to  his  tastes  and  sympathies.  “A 
literary  judgment  is  generally  supposed  to 
be  formed  by  canons  of  criticism,”  remarks 
Van  Dyke,  “but  the  canons  are  generally 
individual  canons,  and  the  criticism  is  but 
the  synonym  of  a preference.” 

Often  the  bell-wether  leads  the  flock 
astray.  Carlyle  would  have  had  A Mid- 
summer Night’s  Dream  written  in  prose, 
and  declared  that  Tennyson  wrote  in  verse 
because  the  schoolmaster  had  taught  him  it 
was  great  to  do  so,  and  had  thus  been 
turned  from  the  true  path  for  a man. 
Emerson  was  always  interested  in  Haw- 
thorne’s fine  personality,  but  could  not 
appreciate  his  writings,  while,  equally 
strange,  the  author  of  the  exquisite  Prose 
Idyls  extols  the  labored  Recreations  of 
North.  Holmes  “never  felt  to  appreciate 
Irving  as  the  majority  look  upon  him,”  and 


214 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


thinks  the  Sketch-Book  “an  overrated 
affair.”  Fitzgerald  did  not  like  In  Memo- 
riam,  The  Princess,  or  The  Idyls,  and  wished 
there  were  nothing  after  the  1842  volume. 
In  Memoriam  has  the  air,  he  says,  of  being 
evolved  by  a poetical  machine  of  the  very 
highest  order.  Voltaire  thought  the  /Eneid 
the  most  beautiful  monument  which  re- 
mains to  us  of  all  antiquity.  Peignot,  in  his 
erudite  Traite  du  Choix  des  Livres,  terms 
the  Georgies  the  most  perfect  poem  of 
antiquity,  thereby  echoing  the  opinion  of 
Montaigne,  who  pronounced  it  “the  most 
accomplished  peece  of  worke  of  Poesie.” 

Edmund  Gosse  finds  Tristram  Shandy 
dull;  Bulwer  asserts  that  only  writers  the 
most  practiced  could  safely  venture  an  oc- 
casional restrained  imitation  of  its  frolicsome 
zoneless  graces.  Possibly  Horace  Walpole 
comes  nearer  the  mark  in  referring  to  it  as 
a very  insipid  and  tedious  performance, 
though  he  might  have  defined  it  as  a re- 
markable work  on  obstetrics. 

Skipping  Don  Quixote  and  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,  and  not  having  read  Die  Wahl- 
verwandtschaften,  Jane  Eyre,  My  Novel, 
Rob  Roy,  The  Three  Musketeers,  The  Scar- 
let Letter,  Charles  O’Malley,  and  how 
many  others  ! La  Harpe  terms  Tom  Jones 
“the  foremost  novel  of  the  world”  (le pre- 
mier roman  du  monde).  So,  I believe, 
does  Lowell.  Wilkie  Collins,  shortly  be- 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves. 


215 


fore  his  death,  gave  the  honor  to  The  Anti- 
quary. The  same  renowned  critic  (La 
Harpe),  considered  the  Divine  Comedy  “a 
stupidly  barbarous  amplification  ” (une  am- 
plification stupidement  barbare) ; Mezieres, 
another  French  critic,  thinks  it  deserves  to 
be  termed  “the  epopee  of  Christian  peo- 
ples” (elle  merite  d’etre  appelee  l’ epopee 
des  peuples  chretiens). 

“We  read  the  Paradise  Lost  as  a task,” 
growls  Dr.  Johnson.  “Nay,  rather  as  a 
celestial  recreation,”  whispers  Lamb.  “I 
would  forgive  a man  for  not  reading  Mil- 
ton,”  Lamb  naively  adds,  “but  I would 
not  call  that  man  my  friend  who  should  be 
offended  with  the  divine  chit-chat  of  Cow- 
per.”  Again,  though  I myself  may  see 
much  to  praise  but  less  to  please  in  Para- 
dise Lost,  infinitely  preferring  Lycidas,  the 
Allegro,  and  the  Penseroso,  I may,  never- 
theless, admire  Lamb;  and  though  I may 
recognize  the  worth  of  Mezieres,  1 may  dis- 
like the  Divine  Comedy.  All  of  us  may 
not  care  for  the  Pilgrim’s  Progress  or 
Hudibras;  and  some  may  prefer  Cellini’s  or 
Rousseau’s  autobiography  to  Boswell’s  bi- 
ography,— it  is  not  always  so  easy  to  read 
and  admire  the  books  one  should  read  and 
admire  from  another’s  standpoint. 

What  two  persons  look  at  things  pre- 
cisely the  same  ? Human  thought  and  hu- 
man opinion  are  as  varied  as  the  expression 


2l6 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


of  the  human  face.  “There  never  was  in 
the  world  two  opinions  alike,  no  more  than 
two  hairs  or  two  grains.  The  most  uni- 
versal quality  is  diversity,”  observes  Mon- 
taigne. “An  opinion,”  says  the  sparkling 
author  of  Bachelor  Bluff,  ‘ ‘ is  simply  an  angle 
of  reflection,  or  the  facet  which  one’s  indi- 
viduality presents  to  a subject,  measuring 
not  the  whole  or  many  parts  of  it,  but  the 
dimensions  of  the  reflecting  surface.  It  is 
something,  perhaps,  if  the  reflection  within 
its  limits  is  a true  one.”  There  are  particu- 
lar writers  that,  never  widely  popular,  will 
always  have  their  particular  admirers,  and 
we  all  of  us  have  our  special  subjects  or 
predilections  that  we  wish  to  know  most 
about,  or  are  most  interested  in. 

“ L’histoire  c’est  mo  gibier  en  matiere 
des  liures,  ou  la  poesie  que  i ay  me  d’vne 
particuliere  inclinatio  *'  (history  is  my 
game  in  the  chase  for  books,  or  poetry, 
which  I especially  dote  upon),  again  ob- 
serves Montaigne.  Montaigne  is  so  quaint 
he  should  be  mused  over  in  an  old  edition; 
it  is  like  gathering  mushrooms  from  an  old 
pasture  on  a hazy  autumn  day.  Plainly,  it 
is  out  of  the  question  to  read  everything 
even  on  a single  subject,  and  many  good 
books  are  practically  unattainable.  The 
Book- Worm,  perched  upon  his  ladder  with 
a duodecimo  in  one  hand,  a quarto  under 
his  arm,  and  a folio  between  his  knees,  has 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves. 


2 1 7 


at  least  four  sealed  volumes.  Each  person 
will  read  preferably  such  books  as  are  in 
keeping  with  his  tastes  and  line  of  thought, 
though  he  will  greatly  stimulate  and  enlarge 
his  thought  by  also  reading  books  diamet- 
rically opposed  to  his  taste.  The  somewhat 
prosy  mind  will  be  benefited  by  familiarity 
with  the  poets;  the  super-poetic  is  improved 
by  the  balance  and  adjustment  to  be  found 
in  the  study  of  works  of  reason  and  criticism. 

But  even  then  we  may  not  read  “the 
best  hundred  books”  of  some  one  else’s 
choosing.  “ We  are  happy  from  possessing 
what  we  like,  not  from  possessing  what 
others  like,”  La  Rochefoucauld  remarks  ; 
and  his  maxim  is  pertinent  to  the  library. 
Tastes  will  ever  differ  in  books  and  in  bind- 
ings, in  epics  and  in  lyrics.  Many  nice 
people  one  knows,  but  one  has  not  the 
time,  neither  does  one  care  to  make  bosom 
friends  of  them  all.  Or,  to  cite  Goldsmith, 
“Though  fond  of  many  acquaintances,  I de- 
sire an  intimacy  only  with  a few.”  Seldom 
do  we  admire  in  age  that  which  captivates 
us  in  youth,  and  that  which  moves  us  in 
one  mood  may  not  appeal  to  us  in  another. 

The  most  omnivorous  book-worm  can 
read  comparatively  little.  Those  who  read 
slowly  and  digest  what  they  read — if  there 
is  time  in  life  to  read  slowly — may  read  still 
less.  There  is  much  in  Bulwer’s  sentence: 
“Reading  without  purpose  is  sauntering, 


2 l8 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


not  exercise.  More  is  got  from  one  book 
on  which  the  thought  settles  for  a definite 
end  than  from  libraries  skimmed  over  by  a 
wandering  eye.  A cottage  garden  gives 
honey  to  the  bee,  a king’s  garden  none  to 
the  butterfly.” 

A happy  remark  with  reference  to  the 
best -hundred -books  controversy  is  that 
credited  to  Herman  Merivale  — “ those 
books  which  everybody  says  everybody 
else  must  read,  but  never  reads  himself.” 
“We  praise  that  which  is  praised  much 
more  than  that  which  is  praisable,”  is  a 
pithy  saying  of  La  Bruyere.  Charles  Lamb 
included  in  his  catalogue  of  Cf  books  which 
are  no  books  generally  all  those  volumes 
which  ‘ no  gentleman’s  library  should  be 
without.’”  The  author  of  that  delicious 
anonymity,  A Club  of  One  (A.  P.  Rus- 
sell), the  failure  to  read  which  should  send 
the  delinquent  to  Coventry,  is  more  of  a 
philosopher  than  many  of  the  professed  lit- 
erary law-givers.  It  is  true  he  presents  a 
list  of  his  favorite  books,  but  the  list  num- 
bers considerably  over  two  hundred,  and 
these  are  delicately  suggested,  and  not  dic- 
tated in  a perfunctory  way;  I have  no  doubt 
he  has  since  added  two  hundred  more.  He 
must  have  read  and  remembered  ten  times 
a hundred  to  write  the  volume  in  question, 
and  ransacked  whole  libraries  to  compose 
the  companion  volumes,  Library  Notes  and 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves. 


219 


In  a Club  Corner,  veritable  mines  of  spark- 
ling sayings,  sententious  precepts,  and  lit- 
erary anecdote. 

Dana  and  Johnson  have  selected  Fifty 
Perfect  Poems  with  excellent  judgment,  no 
doubt,  though  who  was  responsible  for  the 
insertion  of  numbers  forty-three  and  fifty  is 
not  stated  in  the  preface.  The  Elegy,  the 
Ode  on  a Grecian  Urn,  The  Lotus  Eaters, 
and  a half-dozen  other  selections  every  one 
must  have  included  in  a similar  collection. 
But  beyond  this  dozen  or  so  of  immortal 
poems  that  by  no  possibility  might  be  omit- 
ted, it  is  safe  to  say  that  almost  any  other 
anthologist  would  have  gathered  Chrys- 
anthema  totally  different — so  varied  are  in- 
individual tastes  both  in  poetry  and  prose. 
The  fifty  best  poems  and  the  hundred  best 
books  to  Dobson  may  not  be  the  hundred 
best  books  and  the  fifty  best  poems  to  Gosse 
or  Lang.  The  marvel  is  how  Johnson  and 
Dana  could  agree. 

The  scholar  and  the  student  who  live  for 
their  books,  the  author,  the  man  of  elegant 
leisure,  or  the  bibliophile  may  be  benefited 
by  a very  large  library,  and  share  their  bene- 
fits with  the  world ; though  there  is  often  no 
little  truth  in  what  Gerard  de  Nerval  said  of 
the  latter  in  a perverted  sense  of  the  term : 
“A  serious  bibliophile  does  not  share  his 
books ; he  does  not  even  read  them  himself 
for  fear  of  fatiguing  them.” 


220 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


“The  amateur  is  born,”  Derome  goes 
on  to  say  in  Le  Luxe  des  Livres;  “ he  holds 
the  Muses  captive.  If  books  could  speak 
they  would  pronounce  him  a hard  jailer. 
The  bibliophiles  ruin  themselves  in  their 
calling,  neglecting  their  duties  to  their  fami- 
lies. Such  are  not  men  of  letters,  they  are 
hibliotaphes.  They  bury  their  books,  they 
do  not  possess  them.  . . . The  luxury  of 
bindings  is  extended  to  profusion.  It  is  the 
fete  of  red  morocco  and  tawny  calf.”  La 
Rousse  thus  defines  the  term  bibliotaphe: 
“ From  the  Greek  biblion,  book;  tapho,  I in- 
ter, I hide.  i.  He  who  lends  his  books  to 
no  one,  who  buries  them,  inters  them  in  his 
library.  2.  A reserved  portion  of  a library 
where  precious  works  or  works  that  one 
does  not  wish  to  communicate  are  locked 
up.”  Nodier  made  still  another  discrimina- 
tion, that  of  the  bibliophobe  whom  he  thus 
describes:  “ The  bibliophobe  would  see 
nothing  out  of  the  way  in  burning  libraries. 
He  sells  the  copies  that  are  dedicated  to 
him,  and  does  not  return  the  service . 

Between  the  bibliophile  and  the  biblio- 
mane Nodier  draws  this  distinction : “The 
bibliophile  chooses  his  books,  the  biblio- 
mane entombs  them ; the  bibliophile  appre- 
ciates, the  other  weighs ; the  bibliophile  has 
a magnifying  glass,  the  other  a fathom 
measure.”  But  the  dose  consanguinity 
which  exists  between  the  book-lover  and 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves. 


22 1 


the  book-collector;  the  narrow  strip  divid- 
ing terra  firma  from  the  dangerous  marsh 
ever  lighted  by  ignes-fatui  that  lure  the 
pursuer  on  and  on,  is  well  defined  by  Bur- 
ton in  the  introduction  to  The  Book  Hunter, 
where,  referring  to  the  class  for  whom  the 
volume  was  written,  he  finds  it  difficult  to 
say  whether  he  should  give  them  a good 
name  or  a bad,  whether  he  should  charac- 
terize them  by  a predicate  eulogistic  or  a 
predicate  dyslogistic. 

We  all  know  of  the  man  who  paid  a 
fabulous  sum  for  a copy  of  a very  rare  work, 
only  to  consign  it  to  the  flames  on  receiv- 
ing it,  in  order  that  his  own  copy  might 
have  no  duplicate.  This  is  an  exceptional 
form  of  the  bibliolythist,  or  book-burner. 
Among  this  class  are  included  authors 
ashamed  of  their  first  writings,  authors  who 
have  changed  their  political  or  religious 
views,  or  who  have  eulogized  a friend  who 
has  become  a bitter  enemy.  There  exists 
another  form  of  the  bibliolythist  which  Fitz- 
gerald has  omitted  from  his  Romance  of 
Book-Collecting — the  “burking”  of  a work 
by  one  who  has  been  assailed.  I know  of  a 
standing  offer  from  a gentleman  of  three  dol- 
lars apiece  for  every  copy  that  booksellers 
send  him  of  a certain  volume  which  retails 
for  a fifth  of  the  price.  The  work  contains 
a reflection  on  one  of  his  ancestors,  and  as 
soon  as  the  volumes  are  received  they  are 


222 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


burned.  But  the  book -burner  is  by  no 
means  a modern  institution,  Nero  and  Caliph 
Omar  still  remaining  the  greatest  of  bibli- 
olythists. 

1 would  suggest  as  another  desirable 
term  to  add  to  the  lexicon  of  the  bibliopho- 
list  the  term  bibliodcemon,  or  book-fiend — a 
designation  expressive  of  something  more 
than  the  ordinary  significance  of  “book- 
borrower,”  innocent  enough,  no  doubt,  in 
some  of  his  milder  forms,  but  exasperating 
to  the  last  degree  in  his  most  depraved 
phases.  The  borrowing  of  a reference  book 
or  a volume,  a chapter  or  a page  of  which 
may  touch  upon  a subject  that  one  desires 
to  consult  merely  for  the  time  being,  is  a 
matter  apart.  So  also  is  the  exchange  of 
books  between  friends,  or  the  borrowing 
of  a work  not  readily  procurable,  the  recipi- 
ent on  his  part  standing  ready  to  return  the 
courtesy,  and  forthwith  restoring  the  vol- 
ume unsullied.* 

Promptness  in  returning  and  scrupulous 
care  of  a volume  are  the  tests  which  dis- 
tinguish the  comparatively  harmless  form 
of  the  borrower  from  the  aggravated  and 
exasperating  one.  The  miserly  practice  of 
borrowing  books,  books  from  which  the 
well-to-do  borrower  seeks  to  derive  pleas- 
ure or  benefit  without  returning  a just 
equivalent,  simply  to  shirk  the  trifling  cost 
of  the  volume  he  covets,  deserves  the  se- 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves . 223 


verest  stricture.  Such  are  library  dead- 
heads and  defaulters  to  publishers  and  au- 
thors. It  is  this  form  of  the  bibliodaemon 
who  retains  desumed  copies  for  an  indefi- 
nite period,  trusting  the  loan  may  be  for- 
gotten; and  who,  deaf  to  all  ordinary  ap- 
peals and  reminders,  only  relinquishes  the 
volume — frequently  maltreated — when  vir- 
tually wrested  from  him  at  his  home.  The 
celebrated  French  bibliophile  Pixerecourt 
had  inserted  on  the  frontal  of  his  library- 
case  these  pertinent  lines : 

Tel  est  le  triste  sort  de  tout  livre  prete: 

Souvent  il  est  perdu,  toujours  il  est  gate. 

Each  book  that’s  loaned  the  same  sad  fate  o’ertakes — 

’Tis  either  lost  or  sent  back  with  the  shakes. 

There  really  exists  no  reason  why  books 
should  be  loaned — there  are  always  the  pub- 
lic libraries  in  which  the  borrower  may  ply 
his  trade. 

A former  shepherd  of  the  printed  flocks 
in  the  library  of  a neighboring  town  relates 
an  incident  illustrating  a singular  form  of 
book  borrowing,  the  offender  being  a di- 
vine. Passionately  fond  of  books,  he  would 
take  them  home,  forgetting  to  return  them, 
and  when  interrogated  would  always  find  a 
happy  excuse,  the  store  of  borrowed  books 
meanwhile  accumulating.  “A  scholar  and 
a man  of  exemplary  character  and  fine 
sensibilities,  I did  not  wish  to  wound  his 


224 


The  Story  of  my  House . 


feelings  by  an  imperative  demand,  being 
convinced  from  what  I knew  of  him,  that 
it  was  a slight  lesion  rather  than  a fracture 
of  the  mind  which  caused  the  delinquency. 
I therefore  awaited  his  departure,  and  one 
morning,  driving  to  his  home  with  a buggy 
and  a basket,  I took  possession  of  the  bor- 
rowed volumes.  He  never  referred  to  it.  I 
do  not  think  he  even  missed  them.  His 
passion  was  the  joy  of  first  readings,  and 
he  was  proverbially  forgetful.” 

My  scintillant  and  learned  friend  the 
Doctor,  who  for  years  graced  the  Greek 
chair  at  the  University,  and  whose  name  is 
a household  word  among  scholars,  as  his 
presence  is  a ray  of  sunlight  wherever  he 
appears,  contributes  this  supplement  to  the 
lexicon  of  the  book-lover.  The  general 
reader  will  skip  this  passage ; the  bibliophile 
will  thank  him: 

Bibliodcemon  : a book-fiend  or  demon. 

BMo^tfpbage  1 a book-eater  or  de™urer. 

Biblioleter  1 

Bibliopollyon  >-  a book-destroyer,  ravager,  or  waster. 
Bibliophthor  ) 

Biblioloigos  : a book-pest  or  plague. 

Bibliokfept  | a book-plunderer  or  robber. 
Bibliocharybdis  : a Charybdis  of  books. 

Biblioriptos  : one  who  throws  books  around. 


XII. 


MAGICIANS  OF  THE  SHELVES. 


ii. 


As  wine  and  oil  are  imported  to  us  from  abroad,  so 
must  ripe  understanding  and  many  civil  virtues  be  im- 
ported into  our  minds  from  foreign  writings. — Milton. 

It  is  pleasant  to  take  down  one  of  the  magicians  of 
the  shelf,  to  annihilate  my  neighbor  and  his  evening 
parties,  and  to  wander  off  through  quiet  country  lanes 
into  some  sleepy  hollow  of  the  past. — Cornhill  Maga- 
zine, Rambles  among  Books. 

was  held  by  Disraeli  that  liter- 
ature  is  in  no  wise  injured  by 
the  bibliophile,  since  though  the 
worthless  may  be  preserved, 
the  good  is  necessarily  protect- 
ed, he  no  doubt  having  in  mind  the  death 
of  the  collector  and  subsequent  sale  of  his 
library.  For  though  the  bibliophile  may 
stint  his  family  and  hoard  his  golden  leaves 
and  tooling,  at  least  he  abhors  dog’s-ears  and 
keeps  his  treasures  clean.  La  Bruyere,  who 
gave  us  the  delightful  maxim,  “We  only 
write  in  order  to  be  heard,  but  in  writing  we 
should  only  let  beautiful  things  be  heard,” 


226 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


referred  to  these  accumulations  as  “tanner- 
ies,” condemning  fine  bindings,  one  of  the 
few  false  dogmas  uttered  by  the  sprightly, 
entertaining  author  of  Les  Caracteres.  Fine 
bindings  not  only  preserve  but  beautify  fine 
books;  and  to  the  sentiment  of  La  Bruyere 
I prefer  that  of  Jules  Janin:  “ II  faut  a 
Vhomme  sage  et  studieux  un  tome  honor- 
able et  digne  de  sa  louange.  **  (“The  wise 
and  studious  man  should  have  a volume 
worthy  of  his  praise.”) 

In  Edouard  Rouveyre’s  instructive  and 
beautifully-printed  manual  on  bibliography, 
the  question  of  bindings  is  summed  up  in 
a sentence,  fine  bindings  naturally  referring 
to  books  that  are  worthy  of  beautiful  and 
permanent  coverings:  “Binding  is  to  ty- 
pography what  this  is  to  the  other  arts ; the 
one  transmits  to  posterity  the  works  of  the 
scholar,  the  other  preserves  the  typographi- 
cal production  for  him.  . . . The  binding 
of  the  amateur,”  he  continues,  “should  be 
rich  without  ostentation,  solid  without 
heaviness,  always  in  harmony  with  the 
work  that  it  adorns,  of  great  finish  in  its 
workmanship,  of  exact  execution  in  the 
smallest  details,  with  neat  lines,  and  a 
strongly  conceived  design.”* 


* Connaissances  Necessaires  a un  Bibliophile,  par 

Edouard  Rouveyre,  Troisieme  Edition.  Paris,  Ed.  Rou- 
veyre  et  G.  Blond,  1883,  2 vols. 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves.  227 


“The  binding  of  a book,”  the  Right 
Honorable  W.  E.  Gladstone  succinctly  ob- 
serves, “is  the  dress  with  which  it  walks 
out  into  the  world.  The  paper,  type,  and 
ink  are  the  body  in  which  its  soul  is  domi- 
ciled. And  these  three,  soul,  body,  and 
habiliment,  are  a triad  which  ought  to  be 
adjusted  to  one  another  by  the  laws  of  har- 
mony and  good  sense.”  Nor  should  the 
book-lover  neglect  to  carry  out  the  rules 
relative  to  binding  laid  down  by  Octave 
Uzanne  in  his  Caprices  d’un  Bibliophile: 
“A  book  should  be  bound  according  to  its 
spirit,  according  to  the  epoch  in  which  it 
was  published,  according  to  the  value  you 
attach  to  it  and  the  use  you  expect  to  make 
of  it;  it  should  announce  itself  by  its  exte- 
rior, by  the  gay,  striking,  lively,  dull,  som- 
ber, or  variegated  tone  of  its  accoutre- 
ment.” 

With  regard  to  the  book-cases  them- 
selves, their  height  should  depend  upon 
that  of  the  ceilings,  and  on  the  number  of 
one’s  volumes.  For  classification  and  ref- 
erence, it  is  more  convenient  to  have  numer- 
ous small  cases  of  similar  or  nearly  similar 
size  and  the  same  general  style  of  construc- 
tion than  a few  large  cases  in  which  every- 
thing is  engulfed.  With  small  or  medium- 
sized receptacles,  each  one  may  contain  vol- 
umes relating  to  certain  departments  or 
different  languages,  as  the  case  may  be ; by 
15 


228 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


this  means  a volume  and  its  kindred  may  be 
readily  found.  Thus  one,  or  a portion  cf 
one,  may  be  devoted  to  bibliography,  an- 
other to  the  philosophers,  another  to  poeti- 
cal works,  another  to  foreign  literature,  an- 
other to  reference  works,  another  to  books 
relating  to  nature,  art,  etc. 

The  style  and  color  of  the  bindings, 
also,  may  subserve  a similar  purpose;  as, 
for  instance,  the  poets  in  yellow  or  orange, 
books  on  nature  in  olive,  the  philosophers 
in  blue,  the  French  classics  in  red,  etc. 
Unless  methodically  arranged,  even  with  a 
very  small  library,  a volume  is  often  diffi- 
cult to  turn  to  when  desired  for  immediate 
consultation,  requiring  tedious  search,  es- 
pecially if  the  volumes  are  arranged  upon 
the  shelves  with  respect  to  size  and  out- 
ward symmetry.  This  may  be  avoided  by 
the  use  of  small  book-cases  and  a defined 
style  of  binding.  1 refer  to  the  general 
style  of  binding;  variety  in  bindings  is 
always  pleasing,  and  very  many  books  one 
procures  already  bound  and  wishes  to  retain 
in  the  original  covers.  Books,  moreover, 
which  are  in  constant  or  frequent  use 
should  not  be  placed  in  too  tender  colors. 
Volumes  become  virtually  lost  and  inaccess- 
ible in  the  vast  walnut  sarcophagi  in  which 
they  are  frequently  entombed,  and  lose 
the  attractive  look  they  possess  when  more 
compactly  enshrined.  Above  all  things, 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves. 


229 


the  book-case  should  be  artistic,  artistically 
plain,  except  for  the  richness  of  the  carving. 
Black  walnut  I should  banish,  unless  em- 
ployed exclusively  for  somber  old  folios, 
to  accentuate  their  antiquity.  Neither  the 
library  nor  the  study  should  appear  morose 
or  exhale  an  atmosphere  of  gloom. 

In  a room  ten  and  a half  to  eleven  feet 
high,  five  feet  is  a desirable  height  for  the 
book-cases.  Besides  the  drawers  at  the 
base,  this  will  afford  space  for  four  rows  of 
books,  to  include  octavos,  duodecimos,  and 
smaller  volumes.  In  some  of  the  cases 
three  shelves  may  be  placed — the  shelves, 
of  course,  should  be  shifting — to  include 
folios,  large  quartos,  and  octavos.  Where 
the  ceilings  are  twelve  feet  high,  six  feet  is 
a better  proportion,  this  height  affording 
five  or  four  shelves,  according  to  the  size 
of  the  volumes.  By  leaving  the  top  of  the 
book-case  twelve  to  thirteen  inches  wide, 
ample  space  will  be  allowed  for  additional 
small  books,  porcelains,  and  bric-a-brac. 
It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  tall  book- 
cases, in  addition  to  the  inaccessibility  of 
the  volumes  on  the  upper  shelves,  leave 
little  if  any  space  for  pictures  on  the  walls 
above  them ; and  that,  though  books  assur- 
edly furnish  and  lend  an  air  of  refinement 
to  an  apartment,  they  still  require  the  relief 
and  complement  of  other  decorative  ob- 
jects. 


230 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


The  cultured  business  man  who  may 
have  the  taste  but  lacks  the  time  for  exten- 
sive reading,  the  average  man  or  woman 
who  reads  for  recreation,  may  derive  more 
benefit  from  a small  library  comprised  of  the 
best  books  carefully  chosen  than  from  the 
average  large  library.  " Quid  prosunt  in- 
numerabiles  libri  quorum  dominus  vix  tota 
vita  sud  indices  per  legit ?”  (“Of  what  use 
is  an  innumerable  quantity  of  volumes  whose 
owner  may  scarcely  read  the  titles  during  his 
lifetime  ?”)  Seneca  justly  reasoned.  It  is  not 
so  much  the  dinner  of  innumerable  courses 
as  a few  dishes  well  prepared.  Except  to 
those  who  read  quickly  and  assimilate  read- 
ily, the  large  library  is  apt  to  consist  for  the 
most  part  of  “uncut  edges”  in  the  lay- 
man’s sense  of  the  term. 

A good  library  is  rarely  formed  quickly. 
Moreover,  if  it  could  be,  it  were  not  half  as 
satisfactory  as  a library  added  to  by  degrees, 
the  growth  and  gradual  increase  of  years. 
Again,  some  of  the  works  that  were  con- 
sidered a rare  treat  half  a century  since  are 
no  longer  a treat  to-day.  They  have  be- 
come old-fashioned  in  the  same  sense  as  a 
garment.  The  critical  eighteenth  century 
essay  in  its  entirety,  the  old  style  metaphys- 
ical airing  of  some  pet  hobby,  or  didactic 
wool-drawing  now  seem  rather  ponderous 
productions.  At  present  one  does  not  even 
care  to  read  all  of  the  joint  productions  of 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves . 


231 


Addison  and  Steele  (particularly  the  latter’s 
essays),  an  averment  that  would  have 
placed  one  under  a ban  twenty  years  ago. 
Yet  even  in  Johnson’s  day  the  Rambler  was 
more  extolled  than  perused,  the  publisher 
complaining  that  the  encouragement  as  to 
sale  was  not  in  proportion  to  the  raptures 
expressed  by  those  who  read  it. 

With  the  increasing  pyramids  of  books, 
selection  must  become  proportionately  more 
and  more  restricted.  Equally  is  this  the  case 
with  poetry.  Many  of  the  ancient  bards  still 
figure  in  the  editions  of  the  English  poets 
— only  to  sun  their  gilded  backs  on  the  li- 
brary shelves  and  seldom  have  their  pages 
turned.  It  were  absurd  to  assert  that  the 
Spectator  and  numerous  other  productions 
of  a former  day  will  ever  become  closed 
volumes.  Curiosity,  and  their  fame  also, 
would  always  cause  them  to  be  read  by 
futurity  did  not  their  merit  preclude  the 
possibility  of  their  ever  sinking  into  obliv- 
ion. It  is  very  probable,  however,  that  at 
no  distant  day  many  of  the  immortals  will 
exist  in  abridged  editions.  Some  authors, 
like  Montaigne,  on  the  other  hand,  can 
never  be  cut  down ; their  redundancies  and 
embroideries  are  their  charm. 

To  our  forefathers  time  was  more 
lenient  than  it  is  to  us.  Somehow  the 
days  and  the  nights  were  longer,  and  the 
old-time  reader  appeared  to  find  more  leisure 


2 The  Story  of  my  House. 


and  a brighter  oil  with  which  to  pursue  his 
literary  browsings  and  point  his  antitheses. 
“ There  is  a certain  want  of  ease  about  the 
old  writers,”  Alexander  Smith  remarks 
‘ (and  I recall  no  one  who  has  expressed  it 
so  musically  before),  “which  has  an  irre- 
sistible charm.  The  language  flows  like  a 
stream  over  a pebbled  bed,  with  propulsion, 
eddy,  and  sweet  recoil — the  pebbles,  if  re- 
tarding movement,  giving  ring  and  dimple 
to  the  surface  and  breaking  the  whole  into 
babbling  music.” 

“When  1 looked  into  one  of  these  old 
volumes,”  Thoreau  characteristically  says, 
“it  affected  me  like  looking  into  an  inac- 
cessible swamp,  ten  feet  deep  with  sphag- 
num, where  the  monarchs  of  the  forest, 
covered  with  mosses  and  stretched  along 
the  ground,  were  making  haste  to  become 
peat.  Those  old  books  suggested  a certain 
fertility,  an  Ohio  soil,  as  if  they  were  mak- 
ing a humus  for  new  literatures  to  spring 
in.  I heard  the  bellowing  of  bull-frogs 
and  the  hum  of  mosquitoes  reverberating 
through  the  thick  embossed  covers  when  I 
had  closed  the  book.  Decayed  literature 
makes  the  richest  of  all  soils.” 

In  this  age  of  hurry  and  concentration 
who  has  the  time  to  wade  through  the  hun- 
dred volumes  of  Voltaire  ? It  is,  even  a task 
to  go  through  his  anthology,  Elite  de  Poe- 
sies Fugitives,  in  the  pretty  little  two-vol- 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves.  233 


ume  Cazin  edition,  there  are  so  many  more 
shells  than  pearls.  But  one’s  time  is  well 
repaid  after  all,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  find- 
ing and  holding  one  such  exquisite  bit  of 
airy  verse  as  M.  Bernard’s  Le  Hameau.  Is 
it  original,  or  a translation  ? The  German 
poet  Gottfried  Burger’s  Das  Doerfchen  and 
this  are  one  and  the  same,  except  that  the 
latter  is  somewhat  condensed,  though 
equally  beautiful.  Following  M.  Bernard’s 
idyl  is  a panegyric  in  verse  by  Voltaire  ad- 
dressed to  M.  Berger,  “ who  sent  him  the 
preceding  stanzas,”  Voltaire’s  tribute  begin- 
ning: 

De  ton  Bernard 
J’aime  l’esprit. 

C’est  la  peinture 
De  la  nature. 

Bernard,  Berger,  and  Burger ; or  Burger, 
Berger,  and  Bernard  would  at  first  sight 
seem  to  be  in  a tangle.  But  in  rendering  to 
Caesar  the  things  that  are  Caesar’s, 

I praise  my  dear 
Sweet  village  here, 

undoubtedly  should  be  returned  to  the  Ger- 
man poet. 

In  the  case  of  nearly  every  prolific  au- 
thor some  few  volumes  represent  his  finest 
thought.  I grant  every  one  has  or  should 
have  a favorite  author,  one  who  stands  to 
him  on  a higher  pedestal  than  all  others, — 
an  author  whom  he  reveres  and  loves,  and 


234 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


who  must  be  read  in  every  line  that  was 
the  emanation  of  his  brain.  But  for  one  to 
read  every  page  of  Thackeray,  Bulwer, 
Goethe,  Dumas,  and  the  host  of  celebrated 
romancists,  poets,  essayists,  and  philoso- 
phers, delightful  and  instructive  though 
they  be,  is  a simple  impossibility. 

To  return  to  the  change  in  literary  taste, 
and  to  instance  a marked  example,  consider 
Wilson,  or  Christopher  North.  “Fusty 
Christopher,”  Tennyson  termed  this  pomp- 
ous arbiter  elegantiarum.  The  tables  have 
been  turned  since  the  editor  of  Blackwood 
reviled  the  poet-laureate,  and  the  animus  of 
the  criticism  on  Tennyson  might  now  be 
applied  to  its  stultified  author.  What 
magazine  of  the  present  could  be  induced 
to  publish  North’s  rhapsodies  ? An  install- 
ment would  seriously  damage  The  Atlantic, 
Scribner’s,  or  even  Maga  itself.  How  tire- 
some his  ceaseless  alliteration,  his  deluge  of 
adjectives,  his  stream  of  similes,  his  invec- 
tive, his  bathos  ! 

Many  portions  of  the  Noctes,  it  is  true, 
are  marvels  of  imagination  and  erudition, 
and  some  of  his  angling  conceits  are  worthy 
of  Norman  MacLeod.  Others,  especially 
his  selections  as  collected  and  published  by 
himself  under  the  title  of  The  Recreations, 
are  crusted  over  with  algae  of  self-conceit. 
It  is  the  peacock  who  consciously  struts. 
Pepys’s  reiterated  “I”  and  quaint  egotism 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves. 


235 


are  never  tiresome  ; Wilson’s  pompous 
first  person  plural  becomes  a weariness. 
They  used  to  give  us  Baxter’s  Saints’  Rest  to 
parse,  in  the  olden  school  days,  and  I could 
not  help  but  think  that  if  the  saints  had 
such  a horrible  time,  how  fortunate  it  was 
we  lived  in  a more  advanced  period.  No 
doubt  the  schoolmaster  might  have  given 
us  worse  books  to  parse ; and,  unquestion- 
ably, we  should  be  duly  grateful  that  The 
Recreations  were  not  included.  From  the 
a priori  to  the  a posteriori  would  have  been 
so  much  harder  sailing  ! Has  not  even  the 
long-spun  panorama  of  The  Seasons  lost 
something  of  its  charm  ? Or,  rather,  should 
it  not  be  read  in  an  old  edition  ? 

Good  editions  of  good  books,  though 
they  may  often  be  expensive,  can  not  be 
too  highly  commended.  One  can  turn  to 
a page  in  inviting  letterpress  so  much  easier 
than  to  a page  of  an  unattractive  volume. 
The  fine  shades  of  meaning  stand  out  more 
clearly,  and  the  thought  is  revealed  more 
intelligibly  when  clothed  in  fitting  typo- 
graphical garb.  Often  it  becomes  a posi- 
tive labor  to  follow  many  a pleasing  author 
in  the  small  or  worn  types  and  poor  pa- 
per with  which  the  publisher  mercilessly 
thrusts  him  into  the  world.  The  reader 
has  virtually  to  work  his  passage  through 
the  pages  and  take  frequent  rests  by  the 
way. 


236  The  Story  of  my  House . 


Poor  illustrating  is  even  worse.  Who 
may  appreciate  the  beauties  of  The  Talking 
Oak  in  the  edition  where  Olivia  is  portrayed 
in  the  act  of  kissing  a giant  bole  whose 
girth  scarcely  equals  her  own  ? One  must 
ever  afterward  associate  an  oak  with  a fat 
Olivia.  Apparently  the  artist  never  read 
Sir  Thomas  Wyatt: 

A face  that  should  content  me  wondrous  well 

Should  not  be  fair,  but  lovely  to  behold, 

or  William  Browne: 

What  best  I lov’de  was  beauty  of  the  mind, 

And  that  lodgd  in  a Temple  truely  faire. 

How  dreadful,  too,  are  many  of  the  works 
illustrated  by  Cruikshank  and  Crowquill, 
which  some  profess  to  set  such  store  by 
because  they  are  held  at  such  a premium 
by  the  book  dealers ! 

Nearly  as  reprehensible  as  poor  illus- 
trating is  pilloring  the  unfortunate  author 
in  the  stocks  of  some  atrocious  color  that 
must  develop  a cataract  if  gazed  at  long  and 
fixedly.  “ I have  been  well-nigh  ruined  by 
the  binder !”  exclaimed  one  of  the  bright 
writers  and  literarians  of  the  day;  and  be- 
fore attempting  to  read  one  of  his  most  en- 
tertaining volumes  I stripped  it  of  its  fright- 
ful garb  and  clothed  it  in  becoming  attire. 
Otherwise  one  might  not  follow  the  ideas,  the 
glaring  blue  and  hideous  figure  of  the  origi- 
nal cover  asserted  themselves  so  strongly. 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves. 


231 


One  should  always  endeavor  to  procure 
a good  edition  to  start  with ; it  is  inconven- 
ient to  change  editions.  You  come  to  as- 
sociate certain  favorite  passages  of  a well- 
conned  author  with  their  place  upon  certain 
pages,  so  that  you  may  instantly  turn  to 
them.  The  passages  look  strange  to  you 
in  strange  types,  and  you  almost  require  to 
be  introduced  anew.  With  a change  of 
page  the  mere  thought  itself  remains  the 
same,  only  it  seems  to  have  altered  its  ex- 
pression. Let  those  who  will,  prate  about 
a thought  being  a thought  wherever  it  may 
exist.  Some  thoughts  there  are  so  airy  and 
delicate  they  require  to  be  read  by  one’s 
self — they  lose  a portion  of  their  fragrance 
if  repeated  or  obtained  second  hand.  They 
should  be  savored  by  the  eye  and  heard 
only  by  the  inner  ear.  “The  dark  line” 
of  the  sun-dial  “stealing  imperceptibly  on 
— for  sweet  plants  and  flowers  to  spring 
by,  for  the  birds  to  apportion  their  silver 
warblings  by,  for  flocks  to  pasture  and  be 
led  to  fold  by  ” — is  more  sharply  defined 
upon  the  page  of  The  Old  Benchers  of  the 
Inner  Temple,  the  page  where  I first  saw 
it,  than  it  can  ever  appear  to  me  upon  any 
other  page.  Again,  many  flowers  one  en- 
joys most  upon  the  uncut  stalk.  They  may 
not  be  plucked  and  retain  the  full  aroma 
they  distill  amid  their  natural  surroundings. 
So  that  a quoted  sentence  from  want  of 


238  The  Story  of  my  House. 


connection  often  loses  much  of  the  charm 
it  presents  upon  the  author’s  page.  And 
yet,  on  the  other  hand,  quotation,  when  judi- 
ciously employed,  not  unfrequently  places 
the  author  quoted  in  his  most  favorable 
light,  while  forming  equally  a pleasing  com- 
plement to  the  page  of  the  writer  himself. 
Montaigne’s  fleurons  of  citation,  woven 
from  his  scholastic  and  inexhaustible  loom, 
what  were  the  Essays  without  them  ? — 
limpid  brooks  and  springs  ever  pouring 
their  sparkling  waters  into  the  meandering, 
smooth-flowing  river  of  the  text.  Merely 
by  the  change  of  type,  quotation  relieves 
the  monotony  of  the  page,  while,  with 
great  writers,  apt  citation  lends  added  em- 
phasis and  beauty  to  the  thought,  just  as 
the  art  of  damascening  enriches  a fine 
blade. 

Good  editions  are  everything  in  reading. 
Even  the  fragrant  mint  of  Lamb  possesses 
a heightened  pungency  to  me  when  gath- 
ered along  the  cool,  broad  margins  of  a Lon- 
don imprint.  Not  only  the  mind  through 
the  personality  or  charm  of  the  thought  ex- 
pressed, and  the  ear  through  the  harmony 
and  lucidness  of  the  style  with  which  it  is 
uttered ; but  equally  the  eye,  in  the  outward 
garb  with  which  the  thought  is  clothed, 
should  be  gratified  in  reading  a beautiful 
book.  The  printer  it  is  who  contributes 
the  finishing  touches  and  heightens  the  re- 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves.  239 


flective  surface.  Elia’s  buoyant,  playful 
graces  have,  perhaps,  received  their  most 
exquisite  and  appropriate  setting  in  the  two 
little  volumes  of  the  Temple  Library,  print- 
ed by  the  Chiswick  press,  the  smaller  being 
preferable  to  the  large  paper  edition. 

It  is  pleasant  to  have  some  authors  both 
in  an  early  and  a late  edition.  If  I desire 
the  notes,  the  full-page  illustrations,  and  an 
amplified  text,  I choose  the  edition  of  The 
Complete  Angler  illustrated  by  Stothard 
and  Inskipp  and  annotated  by  Sir  Harris 
Nicholas.  If  I wish  to  get  still  nearer  Wal- 
ton— to  hear  more  plainly  his  birds  con- 
tending with  the  echo,  to  pluck  his  culver- 
kees  and  ladysmocks,  to  smell  his  prim- 
roses, and  admire  the  very  “shape  and 
enameled  color  of  the  trout  it  joyed  him 
so  to  look  upon,”  I read  him  in  the  old 
spelling  and  old  font  of  the  fac-simile  re- 
print of  the  first  edition.  Moreover,  for  the 
sake  of  making  comparisons,  it  is  often  de- 
sirable to  have  an  early  as  well  as  a late 
edition  of  a favorite  author.  So  subtle,  in- 
deed, are  the  niceties  of  reading  they  may 
scarcely  be  defined.  How  delightful  the 
mere  cutting  of  the  edges  of  the  book  one 
longs  to  read,  and  the  occasional  dip  into 
the  pages  as  you  turn  the  leaves ! 

Of  a few  favorite  authors  it  is  desirable  to 
possess  two  copies,  one  in  an  inexpensive 
form  to  take  when  traveling.  A trunk- 


240 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


maker  is  yet  to  appear  who  will  contrive  an 
apartment  that  will  enable  one  to  pack  books 
so  they  may  receive  no  possible  injury — the 
one  thing  Addison’s  Trunk-maker  of  the 
Upper  Gallery  neglected.  Besides,  apart 
from  the  friction  in  its  receptacle,  a valuable 
book  is  liable  to  other  injuries,  or  loss  while 
traveling.  The  traveling  volume  should  be 
small,  securely  bound,  light  in  ther~hand, 
and  not  too  bulky  for  the  pocket. 

But  an  old  book  of  all  books  for  true  de- 
light! The  pleasure  of  reading  Chaucer  or 
Spenser  is  doubled  by  the  types  and  the  as- 
sociations of  the  past.  The  foxed  and  faded 
pages  are  like  the  rust  on  antique  bronzes, 
the  lichens  on  an  old  wall. 

In  the  preface  to  Wheatley’s  The  Dedi- 
cation of  Books  reference  is  made  to  this 
fascination  which  is  conferred  by  an  ancient 
font  upon  an  ancient  page.  “There  is,” 
remarks  the  author,  “a  delicate  flavor  of 
antiquity  and  a certain  quaint  charm  in  the 
old  print  of  the  books  from  which  many  of 
the  dedications  have  been  drawn  that  seems 
to  depart  when  the  same  sentences  are 
printed  in  modern  type,  and  we  are  apt 
sometimes  to  wonder  what  it  was  that  we 
originally  admired.  The  bouquet  has  fled 
while  we  were  in  the  act  of  removing  the 
cork  from  the  bottle.”  Present,  too,  with 
the  charm  of  the  olden  page  itself  is  the 
thought  of  who  may  have  first  turned  the 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves. 


241 


pages  when  the  book  you  are  reading  was 
in  its  fresh  and  spotless  leaf,  and  whose 
hand  it  was  that  traced  the  annotations 
which  embroider  its  margins. 

To  revert  in  parentheses  to  the  sun-dial, 
Mrs.  Gatty’s  monograph,  recently  repub- 
lished and  extended,*  contains  thousands 
of  mottoes  and  references  to  the  clock  of 
nature  taken  from  numerous  languages,  but 
none  equal  to  Lamb’s  apostrophe.  So  far 
as  references  to  the  passage  of  time  are 
concerned,  there  can  be  none  more  ex- 
pressive than  Ronsard’s  lines : 

Le  temps  s’en  va,  le  temps  s’en  va,  madame! 

Las!  le  temps  non:  mais  nous  nous  en  allons.f 

Singularly,  the  beautiful  sonnet  in  which 
these  lines  occur  was  one  which  had  been 
cast  aside  by  Ronsard  from  the  later  edi- 
tions of  his  works,  and  was  only  reprinted 
in  Buon’s  edition  of  1609.  Still  more  singu- 
lar it  seems  that  the  “Prince  of  Poets” 
should  have  remained  comparatively  un- 
appreciated for  two  centuries  until  reintro- 
duced by  St.  Beuve.  Am  I mistaken  in 
thinking  there  is  a pronounced  resemblance 


* The  Book  of  Sun-Dials.  Collected  by  Mrs.  Alfred 
Gatty.  New  and  enlarged  edition.  London:  George 
Bell  and  Sons,  1889.  Pp.  viii,  502. 
f Time  goes,  you  say?  Ah,  no! 

Alas,  Time  stays,  we  go! 

(Austin  Dobson’s  translation.) 


242 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


between  this  sonnet  and  Shakespeare’s 
“When  I do  count  the  clock  that  tells  the 
time”? 

Chaucer’s — 

For  tho’  we  sleep,  or  wake,  or  rome,  or  ride, 

Ay  fleeth  the  time,  it  will  no  man  abide, 

and  Spenser’s — 

Make  hast,  therefore,  sweet  Love,  whilst  it  is  prime, 

For  none  can  call  again  the  passed  time, 

are  as  fine  as  any  of  the  allusions  by  the 
classic  poets  who  have  festooned  and  inter- 
twined the  passing  hour  with  rosebuds  and 
asphodels. 

I find  the  Book  of  Sun-Dials  a delightful 
volume  to  take  up  when  in  a meditative 
mood.  It  needs,  withal,  a still  room  and 
a still  hour  to  be  read  in,  an  environing 
quietness  like  the  whisper  of  the  gnomon 
itself.  Then  rambling  through  the  pages, 
the  present  becomes  absorbed  by  the  past 
as  you  muse  over  the  icons  of  the  dials  and 
moralize  upon  the  quaint  inscriptions. 
Transcribed  in  large  Italic  type,  the  mottoes 
stand  out  with  the  vividness  of  an  epitaph 
graven  upon  a tomb,  voices  from  posterity 
preaching  from  the  perennial  text: 

As  Time  And  Houres  Passeth  Awaye 

So  Doeth  The  Life  Of  Man  Decaye. 

Often  as  you  contemplate  the  time-posts 
and  their  intaglios  do  they  absorb  the  at- 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves . 243 


tention  afresh,  casting  new  shades  of  mean- 
ing from  the  sentient  styles.  They  trans- 
port you  into  gardens  where  old-fashioned 
flowers  and  historic  yew-trees  grow,  they 
conduct  you  through  old  churchyards  among 
neglected  graves,  they  deliver  their  homilies 
from  weather-beaten  walls,  and  their  pathos 
appeals  from  many  an  ancient  sanctuary 
and  moss-grown  lintel.  How  noiselessly, 
how  serenely  they  mark  the  flight  of  time  ! 
It  is  Time  itself  inaudibly  counting  the 
hours;  the  day  suavely  balancing  its  silent 
periods.  They  mirror  primitive  time,  re- 
moved from  the  present  turmoil,  when  the 
sun  was  the  pendulum  and  the  shadow  the 
index-hand.  Associated  with  Nature  by 
ties  the  most  endearing,  by  the  golden  sun- 
shine, the  murmuring  breeze,  and  the  songs 
of  birds,  the  dial  becomes,  as  it  were,  a re- 
flective facet  of  external  Nature  in  her  gra- 
cious moods,  its  very  shadow  representing 
sunlight,  the  sunlight  absent  where  the 
shadow  is  not.  The  sun-dial  has  molded 
itself  to  grace,  and  with  rare  exceptions  its 
mottoes  are  happily  chosen,  attesting  hours 
of  meditation  in  forming  an  epigram  or 
shaping  a poetic  fancy  to  blend  with  the 
shifting  shadow.  Certainly  many  of  the 
sentiments  collated  in  the  monograph  re- 
ferred to  are  of  more  than  passing  interest. 
Their  pathos  and  their  quaintness  set  one 
dreaming. 

16 


244 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


Among  the  many  inscriptions  which  ar- 
rested me  while  first  turning  the  leaves,  a 
few  may  be  appended  without,  I trust, 
fatiguing  the  reader.  Let  her  or  him  mor- 
alize a moment,  and  consider  life  from  the 
standpoint  of  the  dial,  now  grave,  now  gay ; 
now  lively,  now  severe.  Though  Time 
hurries  mankind  it  has  apparently  not  hur- 
ried the  dials  in  choosing  their  inscriptions. 
It  is  rather  a case  of  festina  lente  than  hora 
fugit.  Some  are  as  terse  as  an  epigram 
of  Martial  or  a proverb  from  Job;  others 
sweet  as  a hymn  of  Watts  or  a stanza  from 
The  Temple.  Thus,  light  and  shadow  are 
felicitously  blended  in  the  tale  a dial  tells 
on  a house  at  Wadsley,  near  Sheffield,  the 
moralist  preaching  from  a niche  in  the  wall : 

Of  Shade  And  Sunshine  For  Each  Hour 
See  Here  A Measure  Made: 

Then  Wonder  Not  If  Life  Consist 
Of  Sunshine  And  Of  Shade. 

I Mark  The  Moments  Trod  For 
Good  Or  111 

has  been  the  burden  of  the  vertical  dial  at 
the  priory,  Warwick,  since  1556. 

Lifes  But  A Shadow 
Mans  But  Dust 
This  Dyall  Sayes 
Dy  All  We  Must 

says  the  dial  on  the  Church  of  All  Saints, 
Winkleigh,  Devon. 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves.  245 


I Am  A Shadow,  So  Art  Thou 
I Mark  Time,  Dost  Thou  ? 

is  inscribed  on  an  old  horologium  in  the  Grey 
Friars’  churchyard,  Sterling. 

Sweetly  fragrant  are  the  lines  incised  on 
the  four  sides  of  a stone  dial  in  a flower 
garden  at  South  Windleham: 

I Stand  Amid  Ye  Summere  Flowers 
To  Tell  Ye  Passage  Of  Ye  Houres. 

When  Winter  Steals  Ye  Flowers  Awaye 
I Tell  Ye  Passinge  Of  Their  Daye. 

O Man  Whose  Flesh  Is  But  As  Grasse 
Like  Summere  Floweres  Thy  Life  Shall  Passe. 
Whiles  Tyme  Is  Thine  Laye  Up  In  Store 
And  Thou  Shalt  Live  For  Ever  More. 

Pretty,  also,  are  the  lines  by  James  Mont- 
gomery beneath  a vertical  dial  in  Burnes- 
ton,  Yorkshire: 

Time  From  The  Church  Tower  Cries  To  You  And  Me, 
Upon  This  Moment  Hangs  Eternity: 

The  Dial’s  Index  And  The  Belfry’s  Chime 
To  Eye  And  Ear  Confirm  This  Truth  Of  Time. 

Prepare  To  Meet  It;  Death  Will  Not  Delay; 

Take  Then  Thy  Saviour’s  Warning — Watch  And  Pray  1 

One  of  the  mottoes  has  an  echo  of  Sidney: 

Time  As  He  Passes  Us  Has  A Dove’s  Wing 
Unsoiled  And  Swift,  And  Of  A Silken  Sound. 

‘‘The  Night  Cometh”  is  neatly  amplified 
upon  a plate  that  supports  a cross  sun-dial 
on  a stone  pedestal  upon  the  terrace  of  the 
hospital  of  St.  Cross,  Rugby : 


246  The  Story  of  my  House. 


The  Passing  Shadows  Which  The  Sunbeams  Throw 
Athwart  This  Cross,  Time’s  Hastening  Foot  - Steps 
Show; 

Warned  By  Their  Teaching  Work  Ere  Day  Be  O’er, 
Soon  Comes  The  Night  When  Man  Can  Work  No 
More. 

One  motto  reads  Unam  Time  (Fear  one 
hour) ; another,  Unam  Timeo  (One  hour  I 
fear).  Two  others  read,  Heu  Quaerimus 
Umbram,  Heu  Patimus  Umbram  (Alas  ! we 
pursue  a shadow),  (Alas  ! we  endure  the 
shadow).  Eheu  Fugaces  is  marked  upon  a 
Yorkshire  plate,  and  Labuntur  Anni  on 
Burnham  Church,  Somerset.  The  shortest 
mottoes  are  Redeme,  J’avance,  Remember, 
Irrevocabile.  A beautiful  stone  sun-dial  still 
casts  its  shadow  in  the  old  garden  of  Gilbert 
White,  and  is  figured  in  Macmillan’s  edition 
of  the  Natural  History  of  Selborne.  This  is 
not  mentioned  in  Mrs.  Gatty’s  comprehen- 
sive work,  and  I can  not  determine  from 
the  illustration  whether  it  bears  a motto. 
Each  To  His  Task,  taken  from  White’s  Invi- 
tation would  be  an  appropriate  inscrip- 
tion. 

One  of  the  quaintest  inscriptions  men- 
tioned in  the  Book  of  Sun-Dials  is  that  which 
looks  from  the  wall  of  a church  at  Argenti- 
ne, near  Vallouse.  It  was  scarcely  com- 
posed in  an  hour,  and  loses  much  in  the 
translation : 

Cette  Montre  Par  Son  Ombre  Montre 

Que  Comme  L’Ombre  Passent  Nos  Jours. 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves. 


247 


(This  marker  marks  by  its  shadow  that 
our  days  pass  away  like  a shadow). 

There  is  much  of  moral  coloring  in  these 
two  lines : 

Haste  Traveller,  The  Sun  Is  Sinking  Low 
He  Shall  Return  Again,  But  Never  Thou. 

And  is  this  not  altogether  lovely  ? 

Give  God  Thy  Heart,  Thy  Hopes,  Thy  Gifts,  Thy  Gold, 
The  Day  Wears  On,  The  Times  Are  Waxing  Old. 

And  so  one  might  go  on  quoting  the 
old  moral,  shadowed  by  different  texts. 
Perhaps  Sterne  expresses  it  as  pithily  as 
any  epigrammatist,  ‘‘life”  being  but  an- 
other term  for  time:  “What  is  the  life  of 
man  ! Is  it  not  to  shift  from  side  to  side  ? 
from  sorrow  to  sorrow  ? to  button  up  one 
cause  of  vexation,  and  unbutton  another  ? ” 
But  Sterne  deals  with  the  shadow  only, 
while  the  gnomon  of  the  dial  presents  its 
side  of  sunshine  equally  with  its  side  of 
shade,  however  somber  the  tone  of  the  in- 
scription. Doubtless  Nature  preaches  more 
truly  than  man.  Life  is  not  all  composed 
of  shadow,  nor  all  of  sunshine;  and  if  we 
but  cultivate  the  spirit  of  contentment,  pos- 
sibly we  have  solved  its  sternest  problem. 

But  may  contentment,  after  all,  be  had 
for  the  striving?  “Whatever  it  be  that 
falleth  into  our  knowledge  and  jouissance,” 
reasons  Montaigne  in  the  fifty-third  chapter 
of  the  First  Book,  “we  finde  it  doth  not 


248  The  Story  of  my  House. 


satisfie  us,  and  we  still  follow  and  gape  after 
future,  uncertaine,  and  unknowne  things, 
because  the  present  and  knowne  please  us 
not,  and  doe  not  satisfie  us.  Not  (as  I 
thinke)  because  they  have  not  sufficiently 
wherewith  to  satiate  and  please  us,  but  the 
reason  is,  that  we  apprehend  and  seize  on 
them  with  an  unruly,  disordered,  and  a 
diseased  taste  and  hold-fast.”  And,  again, 
in  the  twelfth  chapter  of  the  Second  Book  : 
“All  of  the  Philosophers  of  all  the  sects  that 
ever  were  doe  generally  agree  on  this  point, 
that  the  chiefest  felicitie,  or  summum  honum , 
consisteth  in  the  peace  and  tranquillitie  of 
the  soul  and  bodie  : — but  where  shall  we 
find  it  ?” 

Somewhere,  slumbering  upon  the 
shelves,  there  exists  a golden  book  of  a for- 
mer century,  written  by  a learned  French 
philosopher-pantologist,  entitled  L’Art  de  se 
rendre  heureux  par  les  Songes  (The  Art  of 
rendering  one’s  self  happy  by  Dreams).  A 
unique  volume  and  the  labor  of  a lifetime, 
its  present  owner  and  the  fortunate  pos- 
sessor of  the  secret  has  never  been  discov- 
ered; and,  alas!  a reprint  does  not  exist. 
Contentment — is  this  but  another  name  for 
Illusion  ? — is  a bird  of  passage  who,  soaring 
high  in  the  empyrean,  must  be  secured  on 
the  wing.  Numberless  those  who  would 
ensnare  him,  and  innumerable  the  lures  set 
to  turn  his  evasive  pinion.  But  he  flies  not 


Magicians  of  the  Shelves. 


249 


in  flocks;  and,  dimly  outlined  against  the 
distant  sky,  he  is  ever  flitting  onward,  far 
out  of  range.  Some  one,  farther  on,  who 
seeks  him  not,  perchance  looks  serenely 
upward,  and  unconsciously  charms  him 

down 

My  fair  and  gracious  reader,  is  it  you  ? 


XIII. 

AUTHORS  AND  READERS. 

There  must  be  both  a judgment  and  a fervor;  a dis- 
crimination and  a boyish  eagerness;  and  (with  all  due 
humility)  something  of  a point  of  contact  between  au- 
thors worth  reading  and  the  reader. — Leigh  Hunt, 
My  Books. 

A truly  good  book  is  something  as  natural  and  as 
unexpectedly  and  unaccountably  fair  and  perfect  as  a 
wild  flower  discovered  on  the  prairies  of  the  West  or  in 
the  jungles  of  the  East. — Thoreau. 


certain  selfish  satisfaction  I en- 
joy in  reading  a fine  limited  edi- 
tion of  a classic,  or  a choice 
work  that  is  difficult  to  procure. 
It  is  like  possessing  a gem  of  an 
uncommon  color,  a piece  of  old  Chinese 
glaze,  or  any  rare  art  object.  If  the  work 
itself  possess  intrinsic  value  I am  sure  of  my 
investment,  while  I rejoice  in  its  attractive 
guise.  Reading  thus  becomes  more  than 
a pleasure  ; it  is  an  exquisite  luxury.  I 
marvel  who  secures  all  the  “number  i’s” 
of  the  large-paper  editions.  Some  biblio- 
taphe  must  have  a monumental  collection, 
for  nobody  ever  sees  one. 


Authors  and  Readers. 


251 


“The  passion  for  first  editions,  the  pur- 
est of  all  passions,”  some  one  remarks.  I 
confess  I do  not  share  this  passion  in  its  in- 
tensity, in  all  cases,  unless  the  first  edition 
be  superior  in  letterpress  or  form,  or  a later 
edition  has  been  altered,  condensed,  or  en- 
larged to  its  disadvantage.  The  classics  in 
first  editions,  and  the  “ old  melodious  lays  ” 
in  first  folios  by  all  means,  if  you  can  afford 
and  procure  them ; Gibbon,  Macaulay,  Scott, 
Dickens,  and  the  rest  of  the  historians  and 
novelists  in  the  easiest,  most  attractive  page 
to  read  and  hold  in  the  hand,  whatever  the 
edition.  This  with  reference  to  literature 
proper,  and  not  to  scientific  works,  of  which 
latter  the  latest  edition  is  naturally  to  be 
preferred. 

I sometimes  find  myself  picturing  the 
author  behind  the  page.  Lang  and  Dob- 
son, are  they  as  merry  as  the  songs  they 
sing  ? Phil  Robinson,  is  he  half  so  pleas- 
ant a companion  in  the  flesh  as  on  the 
printed  page  ? Bullen,  who  edits  the  old 
poets  with  such  consummate  taste,  is  he  as 
jolly  as  the  Elizabethan  lyrics  ever  swarm- 
ing on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  ? Higginson, 
so  tender  and  musical  in  his  polished  prose, 

I wonder  does  he  lose  his  temper  when  the 
sauce  piquante  proves  a failure  ? The  brill-  ' 
iant,  entertaining  philosopher  of  A Club  of 
One,  is  he  philosophical  enough  to  eschew 
colchicum  for  his  gout  ; and,  I marvel,  is 


252 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


he  enrolled  among  the  Brotherhood  of  the 
Merry  Eye  ? 

Perhaps  the  author  is  most  charming, 
for  the  most  part,  between  the  covers.  On 
paper  he  is  always  on  his  good  behavior, 
his  personal  facets  shaped  so  as  to  catch  the 
most  favorable  light.  Knowing  him  and 
meeting  him  in  every-day  life  you  might 
find  him  cold,  arrogant,  opinionated — an 
altogether  disagreeable  companion.  For- 
getful of  the  flight  of  time,  he  might  be 
prone  to  argument  or  backbiting.  He 
might  be  deaf  or  color-blind,  and  always 
late  at  his  engagements.  He  might  be 
constantly  straddling  a hobby-horse.  He 
might  be  an  incorrigible  whistler,  or  possess 
an  ungovernable  temper.  All  his  petty 
weaknesses  and  foibles  he  conceals,  or  tries 
to  conceal,  on  the  printed  page. 

Thus,  Joseph  Boulmier: 

Oui,  les  hommes  sont  laids,  mais  leurs  oeuvres  sont 
belles ; 

Les  hommes  sont  mechants,  mais  leurs  livres  sont  bons. 
Men  are  unlovely,  but  their  works  are  fair — 

Ay,  men  are  evil,  but  their  books  are  good. 

If,  as  has  been  asserted,  he  is  the  best  au- 
thor who  gives  the  reader  the  most  knowl- 
edge and  takes  from  him  the  least  time, 
surely  the  olive  crown  should  be  awarded 
the  composers  of  the  compilations,  the 
digests,  and  the  anthologies,  often  the  fruit 
of  decades  spent  in  poring  over  manu- 


Authors  and  Readers. 


253 


scripts  and  print.  Little  do  we  consider 
the  pains  they  have  cost.  What  an  amount 
of  rummaging  through  faded  manuscripts, 
what  ransacking  of  musty  folios  and  plod- 
ding through  by-ways  of  the  past  has  it 
not  required  to  produce  Bullen’s  smiling 
volumes  from  the  song-books,  masques, 
and  pageants  of  the  Elizabethan  Age,  and 
his  other  rarer  anthologies,  Speculum  Aman- 
tis  and  Musa  Proterva.  The  works  them- 
selves of  very  many  of  the  authors  quoted 
would  be  a veritable  labor  to  wade  through, 
with  few  fragrant  flowers  of  poesy  to  per- 
fume the  way.  All  this  the  compiler  spares 
us,  and  with  catholic  taste  gathers  a blos- 
som here  and  a blossom  there  from  the  vast 
fields  of  little-known  song.  Equally  does 
Mr.  Bullen  deserve  the  thanks  of  every 
lover  of  lyric  poetry  for  his  collection  of 
Campion’s  works,  and  the  Chiswick  press 
the  tribute  of  all  admirers  of  beautiful  print- 
ing for  the  frame  in  which  Campion’s 
“golden  cadence  ” has  been  set. 

By  reading  Hazlitt’s  Gleanings  in  Old 
Garden  Literature  I am  saved  the  fatigue  of 
perusing  countless  uninteresting  tomes  on 
the  subject  He  has  extracted  the  honey 
for  me  from  innumerable  flowers.  Yet  my 
Parkinson,  my  Gerarde,  my  Evelyn,  my 
Bacon  I must  read  between  the  lines  my- 
self; it  is  to  the  dull  books  he  has  been  the 
bee  for  me.  To  gather  the  sweets  is  often 


254 


The  Story  of  my  House . 


a difficult  and  always  a laborious  task.  Not 
these  plodding  compilers,  the  class  who  are 
referred  to  in  the  wise  old  precept,  the 
source  of  which  I have  never  been  able  to 
trace:  “Those  who  do  not  practice  what 
they  preach  resemble  those  sign-posts  in 
the  country  which  point  out  the  weary  way 
to  the  traveler  without  taking  the  trouble 
of  traversing  it  themselves.” 

Without  doubt,  among  the  most  beloved 
of  books  are  those  written  for  pure  love  of 
the  beautiful,  distinct  from  literary  ambition 
or  posthumous  fame,  especially  when  to 
this  is  added  a sympathetic,  lucid,  and  un- 
conscious style,  such  as  we  love  to  linger 
over  in  The  Complete  Angler  or  White’s 
Selborne.  Walton  himself  has  epitomized 
this  charm  in  a line  introductory  to  his  an- 
gling idyl:  “ I wish  the  reader  also  to  take 
notice  that  in  the  writing  of  it  I have  made 
myself  a recreation  of  a recreation.” 

Johnson  has  said  books  that  you  may  car- 
ry to  the  fire  and  hold  readily  in  your  hand 
are  the  most  useful,  after  all.  Before  John- 
son, and  long  before  printing  was  dreamed 
of,  an  old  Greek  proverb  held  that  a great 
book  was  a great  evil,  and  Martial  wrote: 

Buy  books  that  but  one  hand  engage, 

In  parchment  bound,  with  tiny  page. 

Assuredly,  the  little  book  is  a delight.  It  is 
a joy  in  the  hand  when  well  bound,  and 


Authors  and  Readers. 


255 


may  serve  to  take  the  place  of  fire-arms  in 
a public  conveyance  where  one  otherwise 
might  find  himself  at  the  mercy  of  an  un- 
congenial or  too  loquacious  passenger.  But 
the  life  of  the  library  were  dull  were  it  con- 
fined to  the  18  and  24  mos.  Let  each 
book  and  each  subject  have  its  appropriate 
setting,  and  let  there  be  variety  of  sizes. 
The  majesty  of  the  shelves  were  fled  with- 
out the  thick  quarto  and  tall  old  folio. 

Apart  from  De  Bury,  Dibdin,  Disraeli, 
Burton,  Didot,  Janin,  the  bibliophile  Jacob, 
and  other  universally  known  bibliographi- 
cal writers,  there  are  innumerable  pleasant 
books  on  books.  Of  such,  in  addition  to 
those  previously  alluded  to,  may  be  speci- 
fied Lang’s  Books  and  Bookmen  and  The 
Library ; The  Pleasures  of  a Bookworm  and 
The  Diversions  of  a Bookworm,  by  J.  Rog- 
ers Rees,  delightfully  written  volumes  at- 
tractively printed  by  Elliott  Stock;  Alexan- 
der Ireland’s  Book -Lover’s  Enchiridion; 
Saunder’s  The  Story  of  Some  Famous 
Books ; Wheatley’s  The  Dedication  of 
Books,  and  How  to  form  a Library,  the 
latter  three  volumes  likewise  daintily  print- 
ed by  Elliott  Stock  in  the  series  of  The 
Book-Lovers’  Library. 

In  A Club  Corner,  by  A.  P.  Russell,  a vol- 
ume previously  mentioned,  is  largely  de- 
voted to  books  and  authors.  A store-house 
of  literary  and  bibliographical  information 


256  The  Story  of  my  House. 


exists  between  the  covers  of  Library  Notes, 
and  Characteristics,  by  the  same  author. 
Books  and  how  to  use  Them  is  the  title  of 
an  instructive  and  entertaining  small  duo- 
decimo by  J.  C.  Van  Dyke,  librarian  of  the 
Sage  Library,  New  Brunswick,  N.  J.,  a 
writer  deep  versed  in  books,  but  not  shal- 
low in  himself.  Brander  Mathews’s  Ballads 
of  Books,  or  Lang’s  recast  of  this  volume, 
is  a most  excellently  chosen  collection  of 
poems  relating  to  books.  Every  one  will 
read  with  pleasure  Percy  Fitzgerald’s  The 
Book  Fancier,  or  the  Romance  of  Book- 
Collecting,  a work  replete  with  curious  in- 
formation. The  French  scholar  has  a host 
of  kindred  works  to  choose  from,  all  written 
de  coeur ; for  in  France  the  passion  for 
books,  book-collecting,  fine  letterpress,  and 
fine  bindings  exists  to  a greater  degree 
than  anywhere  else.  It  was  a Frenchman, 
the  famed  bouquineur  Nodier,  who  worried 
through  life  without  a copy  of  Virgil  “be- 
cause he  could  not  succeed  in  finding  the 
ideal  Virgil  of  his  dreams.” 

What  instructive,  sparkling  volumes  are 
these:  L’Enfer  du  Bibliophile,  Mes  Livres, 
Connaissances  Necessaires  a un  Bibliophile, 
Derome’s  Le  Luxe  des  Livres  and  the  two 
beautifully  printed  and  entertaining  vol- 
umes, Causeries  d’un  Ami  des  Livres,  Le 
Petit’s  L’Art  d’Aimer  les  Livres,  Peignot’s 
Manuel  du  Bibliophile,  Octave  Uzanne’s 


Authors  and  Readers. 


257 


Caprices  d’un  Bibliophile,  Mouravit’s  Petite 
Bibliotheque  d’Amateur,  Jacob’s  Les  Ama- 
teurs de  Vieux  Livres,  and  how  many 
more ! 

I know  of  no  more  fascinating  volume 
of  its  class,  however,  than  De  Resbecq’s 
Voyages  Litteraires  sur  les  Quais  de  Paris, 
Paris,  A.  Durand,  1857.  The  contents  are 
in  the  form  of  letters  from  an  indefatigable 
hunter  of  the  book-stalls  along  the  Seine  to 
a fellow-bibliophile  in  the  provinces.  Daily, 
through  summer’s  sun  and  winter’s  cold, 
he  continues  the  chase,  scenting  the  spoils 
of  the  stalls  like  a harrier  beating  the  ground 
for  game,  chatting  with  the  book  dealers, 
and  philosophizing  as  he  scans  the  volumes. 
Among  the  many  prizes  which  persistent 
foragings  secured  was  a copy  of  that  rarest 
of  the  Elzevirs,  the  Pastissier  Francois. 
The  volume  had  been  denuded  of  its  cov- 
ers, but  had  the  engraved  title-page,  the 
celebrated  scene  de  cuisine  with  the  range, 
the  tables,  the  cooks,  and  the  fowls  entirely 
intact.  “The  box  in  which  this  jewel  re- 
posed, its  interior  in  perfect  preservation, 
contained  no  price-mark. 

“ ‘ How  much  ? ’ said  I to  the  merchant. 

“‘Well,  for  you,  six  sous;  is  it  too 
dear  ? ’ ” 

I recall  few  more  delightful  books  for 
the  bibliophile  than  Jules  Richard’s  beauti- 
fully printed  small  volume  L’Art  de  Former 


25 8 The  Story  of  my  House. 


une  Bibliotheque,  published  by  Edouard 
Rouveyre,  Paris,  1883.  His  advice  to  the 
collector,  which  terminates  the  preface,  is 
well  worth  transcribing : 

“ Always  distrust  your  enthusiasm. 

“ Distrust  the  enormous  prices  at  which 
certain  original  editions  of  secondary  authors 
are  quoted.  For  acknowledged  genius  one 
can  afford  to  pay  generously,  but  for  the 
others,  how  many  disappointments  the  fut- 
ure has  in  store ! 

“Never  pay  a high  price  for  a book  you 
do  not  know. 

“Verify  the  titles,  the  pagination,  the 
tables,  and  count  the  plates,  if  it  is  an  illus- 
trated book. 

“ The  same  observation  holds  good  for 
editions  on  extraordinary  paper  of  books 
absolutely  ordinary.  Whatman  and  vellum 
require  to  be  well  placed  in  order  to  sustain 
their  value. 

“One  knows  when  he  begins  to  col- 
lect, one  never  knows  when  he  will  cease; 
therein  consists  the  pleasure.” 

A work  of  much  interest  is  that  of  Phi- 
lomeste  Junior  (Gustave  Brunet),  published 
in  four  small  brochure  volumes  severally 
entitled  La  Bibliomanie  en  1878,  1880,  1881, 
1883,  ou  Bibliographic  Retrospective  des 
Adjudications  les  Plus  Remarquables  faites 
cette  Annee,  et  de  la  Valeur  primitive  de  ces 
Ouvrages.  It  is  in  France  that  bibliomania 


Authors  and  Readers. 


259 


seems  to  have  reached  its  apotheosis.  La 
Bibliomanie  furnishes  some  interesting  facts 
with  regard  to  the  steady  advance  in  the 
prices  of  certain  classes  of  French  books. 
“Fashion  dictates  her  laws  for  the  choice 
of  books  as  for  the  toilet  of  fashionable 
ladies;  they  are  without  appeal.”  To  be 
the  happy  possessor  of  a cabinet  in  which 
are  enshrined  a dozen  tomes  of  unexcep- 
tional condition,  illustrated  by  celebrated 
eighteenth-century  artists  like  Eisen,  Grave- 
lot,  Moreau,  Marillier,  and  bound  by  Du 
Seuil,  Padeloup,  Derome,  or  Trautz,  calls 
for  an  elastic  portemonnaie. 

To  cite  a few  examples  of  the  advance 
in  French  books,  paralleled  also  in  English 
books,  a copy  of  Manon  Lescaut  (1753) 
sold  in  1839  for  109  frs.,  in  1870  for  355 
frs.,  in  1875  for  1,335  frs.  The  edition 
of  Montaigne’s  Essays:  Bourdens,  S.  Mil- 
langes,  1580,  two  parts  in  one  octavo  vol., 
sold  for  24  frs.,  in  1784.  The  same  copy 
recently  sold  for  2,060  frs.  Another  edi- 
tion of  the  Essays,  1725,  3 vols.  4to,  with 
the  arms  of  the  Marechal  de  Luxembourg, 
brought  2,900  frs.  for  the  “arms.”  Still 
another  edition,  Paris,  1669,  3 vols.,  i2mo, 
a poor  edition,  brought  1,900  frs.  at  the 
Cormon  sale,  Paris,  1883.  It  had  the 
stamp  of  the  golden  fleece,  the  insignia  of 
Longpierre,  a mediocre  poet,  and  the  pur- 
chaser paid  for  the  fleece.  The  edition  of 
17 


26o 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


1595,  Paris,  chez  A.  l’Angelier,  1 vol.,  in- 
fol.  veau,  brought  1,100  frs.,  in  1881.  A 
“clean  and  sound  copy”  of  this  edition  in 
the  original  calf  was  quoted  in  a recent 
London  catalogue  at  £12  125.,  another  Lon- 
don dealer  pricing  a copy  of  the  same  edi- 
tion soon  afterward  at  £60. 

The  edition  of  1 588,  Paris,  Abel  l’Ange- 
lier,  in  4,  mar.,  Du  Seuil,  was  recently 
quoted  by  Morgand  who  is  termed  la 
bourse  des  limes , at  4,000  frs.  This  was 
the  last  edition  published  during  the  author’s 
lifetime,  and  the  first  to  contain  the  third 
book.  It  was  marked  on  the  frontispiece 
“fifth  edition,”  though  only  three  are 
known  to  have  preceded  it.  The  library 
of  Bordeaux  possesses  an  example  of  this 
edition  filled  with  annotations  and  correc- 
tions by  the  hand  of  Montaigne.  Up  to  the 
present  time,  no  editor  of  the  Essais  has 
availed  himself  of  these  resources,  of  ines- 
timable value  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
study  of  the  text  of  Montaigne.  It  would 
be  of  more  than  passing  interest  to  know 
whether  in  these  corrections  the  author 
mitigated  his  observation  with  regard  to 
authors  correcting  their  work. 

A copy  of  the  Pastissier  Francois, 
bound  by  Trautz,  was  purchased  not  long 
since  by  a French  amateur  for  4, 100  frs. 
In  1883  a copy  sold  for  3,100  frs.,  at  the 
sale  of  M.  Delestre-Cormon,  Paris.  “This 


Authors  and  Readers. 


261 


broche  copy,  uncut  (extremely  rare  in  this 
condition),  cost  its  owner  10,000  frs. ; it 
has  suffered  a justifiable  reduction.  De- 
spite the  entire  absence  of  interest  it  pre- 
sents, this  volume  being  the  least  known  of 
the  Elzevir  collection,  it  has  often  obtained 
enormous  prices,  but  they  are  not  sustained ; 
it  has  been  recognized  that  its  rarity  has 
been  exaggerated.  ” 

Among  the  numerous  causes,  especially 
in  France,  which  operate  in  the  value  of  a 
volume  are  previous  distinguished  owner- 
ship, and  the  garb  of  an  illustrious  binder. 
In  books  the  habit  frequently  makes  the 
“monk.”  It  is  sufficient  for  a mediocre 
work  to  be  emblazoned  with  the  crest  of 
Pompadour  or  to  have  been  fingered  by  Du 
Barry  to  make  it  worth  its  weight  in  gold. 
All  their  legeretes  are  freely  forgiven  by  the 
bibliophile  in  view  of  the  lovely  bindings 
with  which  they  clothed  their  books.  Of 
recent  years,  as  is  well  known,  the  Greek 
and  Latin  classics  have  found  far  less  favor 
than  they  did  a few  years  since.  In  France, 
and  equally  in  England,  the  craze  is  for  first 
editions  of  standard  works,  for  rare  works, 
for  works  formerly  belonging  to  some  dis- 
tinguished personage,  for  rare  or  beautiful 
bindings, ‘and  for  special  beauty  of  letter- 
press  or  illustration. 

A late  illustrated  catalogue,  issued  by 
Bouton,  the  New  York  bookseller,  fur- 


262 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


nishes  some  interesting  facts  with  regard  to 
the  increase  in  the  price  of  books  in  this 
country.  If  we  consider  the  rapidly  ad- 
vancing taste  for  literature  in  America,  it  is 
safe  to  predict  that  it  will  not  be  long  be- 
fore rare  and  valuable  books  will  be  as  gen- 
erally sought  for  here  as  they  are  in  France 
and  England,  and  become  as  well  distrib- 
uted as  are  the  choice  treasures  of  the  world 
of  art  which  find  the  highest  competition  in 
the  metropolis  of  the  New  World. 

Reviewing  the  book  trade  of  the  past 
thirty  years,  a retrospect  shows  that  year  by 
year  the  competition  for  rare  and  standard 
books  has  become  more  keen  and  the  older 
ones  necessarily  more  and  more  difficult  to 
procure.  “In  the  English  book-centers,” 
says  the  reviewer,  “besides  a large  home 
demand,  the  purchases  for  the  United  States 
and  the  English  colonies  keep  up  a steady 
stream  outward,  and  first  editions  must 
sooner  or  later  become  unattainable,  as  they 
will  ultimately  find  a place  in  public  institu- 
tions.” Comparing  the  prices  quoted  in 
early  catalogues  with  those  of  to-day,  for 
instance,  a copy  of  the  Abbotsford  edition 
of  Scott’s  works,  17  vols.,  handsomely 
whole-bound,  priced  twenty -five  years 
since  at  $125,  is  now  priced  at  $225.  The 
Pickering  Chaucer,  then  priced  at  $10,  is 
now  held  at  $30.  Major  Walpole’s  Anec- 
dotes, priced  $22.50,  is  in  the  present  cata- 


Authors  and  Readers. 


263 


logue  at  $75.  Rowlandson’s  Dance  of 
Death  at  $6.50  and  the  Dance  of  Life  at 
$1.75  have  advanced  to  $75,  for  the  three 
volumes.  In  catalogue  No.  2 a fine  copy 
of  Purchas’s  Pilgrims  is  quoted  at  $175.  A 
similar  copy  would  now  command  $500. 
In  Catalogue  No.  3 a fine  copy  of  the  Nu- 
remberg Chronicle  is  priced  at  $35 ; in  the 
present  catalogue  a copy  is  priced  $150. 
Based  upon  an  experience  of  over  thirty 
years,  the  reviewer  asserts  that,  however 
fashion  may  change  and  this  or  that  class 
of  books  come  into  or  pass  out  of  vogue, 
good  sterling  books  of  real  merit  will 
always  be  in  demand,  while  the  first  edi- 
tions of  the  works  of  great  writers  will 
continue  to  rise  steadily  in  value,  and  will 
be  prized  as  long  as  the  English  language  is 
spoken. 

La  chasse  aux  bouquins  is  not  without 
its  disappointments  and  surprises.  Time 
and  again  one  misses  the  mark,  finally  to 
secure  a rare  prize.  A captivating  title  is 
not  always  a safe  target.  Appearances  are 
deceitful  in  book-titles,  and  the  old  book 
catalogues  have  very  winning  ways.  The 
two  bound  volumes  of  Les  Trois  Mousque- 
taires,  which  I picked  up  in  a book-stall 
along  the  quay  at  Paris  years  ago,  con- 
tained a pencil  drawing  of  Porthos  inserted 
between  the  fly-leaf  and  title-page  of  Vol- 
ume I,  worth  a hundred  times  their  cost. 


264  The  Story  of  my  House. 


Fortunately,  they  had  escaped  De  Resbecq. 
Whether  Edouard  Olin,  the  artist  whose 
name  figures  below,  ever  exhibited  a pict- 
ure in  the  Salon  subsequently,  I do  not 
know.  But  his  Porthos  is  a marvel  of  con- 
ception and  execution  that  would  have  de- 
lighted Dumas  and  that  would  honor  De- 
taille. 

A German  catalogue  was  the  means  of 
procuring  me,  at  half  the  original  cost  of  the 
volume,  a clean  and  perfect  copy  of  Joseph 
Boulmier’s  Rimes  Loyales.  Paris:  Poulet- 
Malassis  et  De  Brosse,  1857.  The  copy  con- 
tains on  the  false  title  the  authors  ex  dono 
to  Mademoiselle  Andrea  Bourgeois,  and  on 
the  reverse  of  the  title-page,  in  the  same 
singularly  neat  handwriting,  signed  “J.  B.,” 
is  a poem  of  six  stanzas,  scarcely  exceeded 
in  beauty  and  finish  by  any  from  the  pen 
of  the  author  of  Rimes  Loyales  or  Les  Villa- 
nelles.  The  lines  are  entitled  Du  Haut  de 
Montmartre,  the  first  and  sixth  stanzas  be- 
ing identical,  and  reading  as  follows : 

L’aigle  n’habite  pas  au  fond  de  la  vallee 

II  choisit  pour  son  aire  une  cime  isolee, 

Et  c’est  de  la  qu’il  part,  libre  et  capricieux. 

Le  poete  est  semblable  a l’aigle  magnanime: 

II  aime  les  hauteurs  ou  l’air  vif  le  ranime, 

Ou,  plus  loin  de  la  terre,  il  est  plus  pres  des  cieux. 

A friend  and  Tom  Folio,  who  devours 
the  old  book  catalogues,  saw  this  advertise- 
ment a short  time  since  in  an  English  pam- 


Authors  and  Readers. 


265 


phlet : “ Machiavelli  (Nicolo).  Opere,  n 
vols.,  4to,  whole  bound  russia  extra,  gilt 
edges,  with  portrait,  printed  throughout  on 
blue  paper  (only  eight  copies  so  made),  a 
most  superb  set.  Milan,  1810.  . . . £4.” 
He  cabled  for  it  and  secured  it.  It  proved 
a blue  diamond.  Within  a week  after  re- 
ceiving it  he  was  offered  two  hundred  dol- 
lars for  the  work.  Within  a fortnight  he 
disposed  of  it  for  three  hundred  dollars,  a 
sufficient  advance  to  make  a large  addition 
to  his  library. 

Many  tempting  and  deceptive  titles  oc- 
cur under  the  heading  of  “Curious”  and 
“Facetiae,”  but  experience  will  cause  one 
to  fight  shy  of  catching  titles  and  annota- 
tions unless  one  knows  the  work  to  be 
meritorious.  Frequently  the  gold  is  in  the 
tooling,  and  the  pure  ore  concealed  beneath 
an  unattractive  cover.  Perhaps  the  wind- 
falls are  more  than  offset  by  the  disappoint- 
ments. Inviting  volume  after  inviting  vol- 
ume will  present  itself  when  one  is  not  in 
the  humor,  thrusting  itself  before  you  in  the 
book-stalls  and  auction  sales,  mutely  ap- 
pealing to  you  to  become  its  possessor,  only 
to  elude  you  when  you  earnestly  desire  it. 

But  auction  sales  are  dangerous,  and  are 
apt  to  lead  to  lapses  and  excesses  that  one 
would  not  commit  in  calmer  moments. 
There  it  is  difficult  to  decide  dispassionately, 
while  the  lots  invariably  bring  far  higher 


266 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


prices  than  if  obtained  in  the  ordinary  way. 
Even  those  of  stern  judgment  are  led  into 
purchases  they  afterward  regret,  carried 
away  by  the  excitement  of  the  moment. 
The  seductive  voice  of  the  auctioneer,  the 
passion  for  possession,  the  rivalry  of  the 
bidders,  and  the  excitement  of  the  hour,  all 
exert  their  influence  and  combine  to  weaken 
even  the  most  stoical  and  wary.  The  fly 
is  placed  temptingly  upon  the  current,  and 
instantly  it  is  seized. 

Again,  you  dive  into  the  foreign  book 
pamphlets,  where  a coveted  treasure  is 
catalogued,  almost  inevitably  upon  appli- 
cation to  find  it  “sold,”  the  prize  is  so  far 
out  of  reach.  But  how  elated  you  are 
when  you  do  secure  a long-sought  prize, 
and  after  repeated  attempts  a tall  old  copy 
in  perfect  condition  and  in  lovely  first  letter- 
press  rewards  your  endeavors ! 

Sainte-Beuve  speaks  of  “the  smiling  and 
sensible  grace  of  Charles  Lamb.”  I am 
inclined  to  think  the  latter’s  characteristic 
good  humor  was  in  part  due  to  the  facility 
with  which  he  procured  the  rare  old  edi- 
tions he  loved.  They  were  easier  to  lift 
from  the  shelves  in  Lamb’s  days  than  now, 
and  the  old  book-dealer  possessed  far  less 
“ Imperfect  Sympathies  ” than  the  hardened 
modern  Autolycus. 

My  interpretation  of  Montaigne  by  Flo- 
rio,  “thick  folio,  large  copy,  old  calf,  neat, 


Authors  and  Readers.  267 


scarce,  1632,”  and  its  predecessor  of  1613 
that  lend  such  dignity  to  their  companions 
in  old  calf,  were  not  obtained  without  per- 
sistent efforts.  Sometimes  I think  many 
of  my  old  books  are  not  unlike  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley’s  fox,  whose  brush  cost  him 
fifteen  hours’  riding,  carried  him  through 
half  a dozen  counties,  killed  him  a brace  of 
geldings,  and  lost  above  half  his  dogs.  But 
one’s  rare  editions  need  no  brass  nails  to 
record  their  bewitching  title-pages  or  mark 
their  place  amid  the  vistas  of  the  shelves. 

Preferable  to  the  editions  of  1613  and 
1603  is  the  later  edition,  the  former  lacking 
the  index,  though  containing  the  fine  por- 
trait of  the  translator  by  Hole.  Florio’s 
strong  and  masterly  English  has  well  re- 
flected the  original.  I regard  his  translation 
as  far  superior  to  the  more  generally  accept- 
ed version  by  Cotton.  Cotton  is  frequently 
more  literal;  but  Florio,  despite  not  unfre- 
quent interpolations  and  slight  departures, 
comes  nearer  to  the  coloring  and  pictur- 
esqueness of  the  text.  Take  the  spirited 
passage  of  the  hare  and  the  harrier,  for  in- 
stance : 

Ce  lieure  qu’  vn  leurier  imagine  en  songe  : apres 
lequel  nous  le  voyons  haleter  en  dormant,  allonger  la 
queue,  secotier  les  jarrets,  & representer  parfaitement  les 
mouuemens  de  sa  course:  c’est  vn  lieure  sans  poil  & 
sans  os. — Book  II,  chap.  xii. 

The  Hare  that  a Grey-Hound  imagines  in  his  sleep, 
after  which  we  see  him  pant  so  whilst  he  sleeps,  stretch 


268 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


out  his  Tail,  shake  his  Legs,  and  perfectly  represent  all 
the  motions  of  a Course,  is  a Hare  without  Furr  and 
without  Bones. — Cotton’s  translation. 

That  Hare,  which  a grey-hound  imagineth  in  his 
dreame,  after  whom  as  he  sleepeth  we  see  him  bay, 
quest,  yelp,  and  snort,  stretch  out  his  taile,  shake  his 
legs,  and  perfectly  represent  the  motions  of  his  course; 
the  same  is  a Hare  without  bones,  without  haire. — Flo- 
rio’s  translation. 

Equally  well  rendered,  and  an  excellent 
specimen  of  the  translator’s  style,  is  the 
passage  of  Volumnius  referring  to  the  elec- 
tion of  certain  Roman  citizens  as  consuls: 
“They  are  men  borne  unto  warre,  of  high 
spirits,  of  great  performance,  and  able  to 
effect  anything;  but  rude,  simple,  and  un- 
arted  in  the  combat  of  talking;  minds  truly 
consulare.  They  only  are  good  Pretors,  to 
do  justice  in  the  Citie  that  are  subtile,  cau- 
telous,  well-spoken,  wily,  and  lip- wise.” 
Florid  and  redundant,  Florio  nevertheless 
employed  his  words  as  Walton  did  his  frog; 
and  in  numerous  passages  he  out-Mon- 
taignes  Montaigne,  his  vocabulary,  as  Mon- 
taigne says  of  the  Italian  cook’s,  being 
“stuffed  with  rich,  magnificent  words  and 
well-couched  phrases ; yea,  such  as  learned 
men  use  and  employ  in  speaking  of  the 
Government  of  an  Empire.” 

Speaking  of  Florio’s  rendition,  the  son- 
net Concerning  the  Honour  of  Bookes — 

Since  honour  from  the  honorer  proceeds, 


Authors  and  Readers. 


269 


etc. — is  well  known.  Not  so  familiar, 
however,  the  preceding  lines,  likewise  pre- 
fixed to  the  editions  of  1613  and  1632,  and 
relating  equally  to  books.  The  sonnet, 
which  has  no  name  attached  and  which 
was  naturally  attributed  to  the  translator, 
is  now  generally  thought  by  critics  to  be 
by  his  friend  Daniel,  “of  whom  it  is  abun- 
dantly worthy,  and,  indeed,  most  character- 
istic in  sentiment  and  diction,”  observes 
David  Main.  The  somewhat  extended 
eulogium  of  author  and  translator  is  worth 
transcribing  for  those  who  may  not  be 
familiar  with  it.  It  corroborates,  withal,  a 
view  regarding  the  increasing  multitude  of 
books,  a multitude  increased  a thousand- 
fold since  Daniel’s  time,  that  I have  previous- 
ly touched  upon.  Relating  as  it  does  to  the 
French  philosopher,  it  may  well  be  diffusive. 

But  no  extended  transcription  of  an  old 
author  can  stand  out  upon  a modern  page 
with  the  vividness  it  does  in  a well-pre- 
served old  edition.  Apart  from  the  charm 
of  antiquity,  the  old  edition  has  an  added 
virtue  which  the  new  edition  lacks— the 
odor  that  clings  to  a venerable  tome,  a 
fragrance  as  of  the  everlasting  or  immor- 
telle of  the  autumn  fields,  lingering  amid  its 
ancient  leaves.  Nor  is  this  altogether  fancy ; 
the  faded  pages  recall  the  ashen  hue  of  the 
flower,  and  like  it  they  survive  to  preach 
the  sermon  of  immortality. 


2 70 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


Daniel’s  lines  are  thus  inscribed:  “To 
my  deare  brother  and  friend  M.  John  Florio, 
one  of  the  Gentlemen  of  her  Majesties  most 
Royall  Privie  Chamber”: 

Books,  like  superfluous  humors  bred  with  ease, 

So  stuffe  the  world,  as  it  becomes  opprest 
With  taking  more  than  it  can  well  digest; 

And  now  are  turnd  to  be  a great  disease. 

For  by  this  overcharging  we  confound 
The  appetite  of  skill  they  had  before: 

There  be’ng  no  end  of  words,  nor  any  bound 
Set  to  conceit  the  Ocean  without  shore. 

As  if  man  laboured  with  himselfe  to  be 
As  infinite  in  writing,  as  intents; 

And  draw  his  manifold  uncertaintie 
In  any  shape  that  passion  represents: 

That  these  innumerable  images 
And  figures  of  opinion  and  discourse 
Draw’n  out  in  leaves,  may  be  the  witnesses 
Of  our  defects  much  rather  than  our  force. 

But  yet  although  wee  labour  with  this  store 
And  with  the  presse  of  writings  seeme  opprest, 

And  have  too  many  bookes,  yet  want  wee  more, 
Feeling  great  dearth  and  scarcenesse  of  the  best; 
Which  cast  in  choicer  shapes  have  been  produc’d, 
To  give  the  best  proportions  to  the  minde 
Of  our  confusion,  and  have  introduc’d 
The  likeliest  images  frailtie  can  finde, 

And  wherein  most  the  skill-desiring  soule 
Takes  her  delight,  the  best  of  all  delight, 

And  where  her  motions  evenest  come  to  rowle 
About  this  doubtful  center  of  the  right. 

Wrap  Excellencie  up  never  so  much 
In  Hierogliphicques,  Ciphers,  Caracters, 

And  let  her  speake  never  so  strange  a speech, 

Her  Genius  yet  fmdes  apt  decipherers: 


Authors  and  Readers. 


271 


And  never  was  she  borne  to  dye  obscure, 

But  guided  by  the  Starres  of  her  owne  grace, 

Makes  her  owne  fortune,  and  is  ever  sure 
In  mans  best  hold  to  hold  the  strongest  place. 

And  let  the  Critick  say  the  worst  he  can, 

He  cannot  say  but  that  Montaigne  yet 
Yeelds  most  rich  peeces  and  extracts  of  man; 
Though  in  a troubled  frame  confus’dly  set, 

Which  yet  h’is  blest  that  he  hath  ever  seene, 

And  therefore  as  a guest  in  gratefulnesse, 

For  the  great  good  the  house  yeelds  him  within 
Might  spare  to  tax  th’  unapt  convoyances. 

But  this  breath  hurts  not,  for  both  work  and  frame, 
Whilst  England  English  speakes,  is  of  that  store 
And  that  choice  stuffe  as  that  without  the  same 
The  richest  librarie  can  be  but  poore 
And  they  unblest  who  letters  doe  professe 
And  have  him  not : whose  owne  fate  beats  their  want 
With  more  sound  blowes  than  Alcibiades 
Did  his  Pedante  that  did  Homer  want. 

My  1603  folio  Florio  bound  by  Roger 
Payne,  my  Foppens’s  Elzevir  with  autograph 
and  annotations  of  Moliere,  my  1 580  Bour- 
dens  edition  placed  in  its  robe  of  honor  by 
Derome — all  these  my  ship  contained  among 
her  precious  stores. 


XIV. 

THE  PAGEANT  OF  THE  IMMORTALS. 

Hi  sunt  Magistri  qui  nos  instruunt,  sine  virgis  et 
ferulis,  sine  cholora,  sine  pecunia.  Si  accedis,  non  dor- 
miunt;  si  inquiris,  non  se  abscondunt;  non  obmurmu- 
rant,  si  oberres;  cachinos  nesciunt,  si  ignores. — Richard 
de  Bury. 

Pour  peu  qu’il  soit  tenu  loin  du  chaud  et  du  frais, 
Qu’on  y porte  une  main  blanche  et  respectueuse, 

Que  le  lecteur  soit  calme  et  la  lectrice  heureuse  . . . 
Un  livre  est  un  ami  qui  ne  change  jamais. 

Jules  Janin. 


have  two  chairs  for  my  reading 
— a stiff  one  for  books  I have  to 
read  ; a luxurious  one  for  books 
I like  to  read.  My  luxurious 
chair  is  of  dark-green  leather,  a 
seat  to  sink  into,  modeled  after  the  easy 
arm-chair  of  the  Eversley  Rectory,  known 
from  its  seductive  properties  as  “Sleepy 
Hollow.”  When  I find  a volume  more 
than  usually  delightsome,  I call  in  an  extra 
chair  for  a foot-rest,  so  the  body  may  pos- 
sess the  same  ease  as  the  mind.  And  yet 
the  delight  a volume  affords  depends  large- 
ly upon  the  mood  in  which  the  leaves  are 


The  Pageant  of  the  Immortals.  273 


turned,  and  the  printer  who  has  turned  the 
leaves. 

A fondness  for  reading  the  old  book 
catalogues  is  apt  to  prove  not  only  an  ex- 
pensive luxury,  but  consumes  a great  deal 
of  time.  For  no  catalogue  may  be  hastily 
skimmed  through.  The  least  attractive  list, 
composed  largely,  it  may  be,  of  works  on 
theology,  mineralogy,  theosophy,  or  juris- 
prudence, may  contain  the  precise  book  you 
are  searching  for.  The  mt)st  attractive  lists 
must  naturally  be  perused  carefully.  In 
fact,  reading  catalogues  is  like  reading 
books  — even  with  attentive  reading  one 
is  liable  to  skip  a title,  or,  at  least,  overlook 
its  real  significance,  just  as  one  may  not  al- 
ways grasp  the  true  meanings  of  an  author 
upon  first  perusal.  Then,  one  subject  or 
one  title  leads  to  another,  and  the  catalogue 
must  be  reread.  Even  when  you  have  made 
out  your  list,  it  occurs  to  you  that  half  or 
three  quarters  of  the  lot  you  have  selected 
will  undoubtedly  be  “sold”  ; and  having 
left  out  a number  you  really  desire,  you  go 
over  the  catalogue  still  more  carefully  a 
third  time  for  “substitutes.”  Not  only 
this,  but  the  catalogue  differs  from  a book 
in  that  it  can  not  wait  or  be  put  off.  It 
must  be  studied  immediately  it  is  received ; 
or  some  one  else  gets  the  advantage,  as 
some  one  else  living  nearer  by  generally  does. 

If  the  business  you  have  on  hand  pre- 


274 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


vents  your  devoting  the  necessary  time  to 
the  catalogue  or  catalogues,  you  are  haunted 
with  the  feeling  that  it  contains  a prize,  and 
that  you  may  not  catch  the  first  mail.  In- 
deed, should  any  of  the  lists  contain,  at 
anything  like  a reasonable  figure,  that  scarce 
old  Herbal,  an  ancient  angling  tome,  or  a 
certain  edition  of  Les  Caracteres,  which  you 
have  long  been  searching  for,  you  ought  to 
telegraph  for  it  without  a moment’s  delay. 
You  know  Smith  will  read  his  list  the  min- 
ute he  receives  it.  He  is  already  far  richer 
in  La  Bruyeres  than  you  are,  and  never 
ceases  collecting  them.  And  although  he 
already  has  the  edition  you  desire,  it  is  ten 
to  one  if  he  sees  it  offered  at  a bargain  in  fine 
antique  binding  he  will  duplicate  it.  There 
is  no  such  contingency  as  his  skipping  it. 
He  never  skips — he  secures  and  exults. 
His  library  shelves  groan  with  La  Bruyeres. 
Were  he  rich  he  might  be  forgiven;  but  all 
his  prizes  have  been  hooked  by  careful 
angling,  and  are  a triumph  to  his  skill  and 
monumental  industry. 

Charles  Asselineau,  in  the  unique  little 
volume  L’Enfer  du  Bibliophile,  draws  a 
sharp  line  between  the  true  book-hunter, 
who  makes  use  of  his  own  knowledge, 
patience,  and  industry,  and  the  hunter  by 
proxy,  who  bags  his  spoils  through  cun- 
ning other  than  his  own — “the  rich  and 
lazy  amateur  who  only  hunts  by  procura- 


The  Pageant  of  the  Immortals.  275 


tion  and  trusts  to  the  care  of  an  accom- 
plished professional  to  whom  he  gives  carte 
blanche , and  who  despises  him — ay,  who 
despises  him,  as  the  game-keeper  and 
poacher  always  despise  the  indolent  and 
unskillful  master  who  triumphs  through 
their  skill.”  The  opening  sentence  of  the 
volume  is  worthy  of  Sterne  : “ Oni  . . . 
Venfer  ! is  it  not  there  that  one  must  arrive 
sooner  or  later,  in  this  life  or  in  the  other  ; 
oh  all  of  you  who  have  placed  your  joys  in 
voluptuousness  unknown  to  the  vulgar  ? ” 
On  the  other  hand,  you  have  the  alterna- 
tive of  neglecting  your  business  and  attend- 
ing to  the  catalogues.  In  any  case,  the 
book  catalogue  is  an  attraction  and  a bane. 
If  you  are  niggardly  and  only  order  a vol- 
ume or  two,  you  are  generally  disappointed ; 
if  you  are  in  a liberal  mood,  and  order  a 
number,  thinking  you  will  only  obtain  a few, 
you  are  likely  to  get  a lot  of  books  that  will 
deprive  you  of  getting  others  you  really 
require.  Then  the  works  one  continually 
sees  that  one  can  not  afford,  the  columns 
of  temptations  all  crying,  “Farewell ! thou 
art  too  dear  for  my  possessing  ” — the  Paris 
catalogues  in  particular,  so  rich  in  their 
embarras  de  richesses.  There  is  a stanza 
of  Clough’s  that  may  be  cited  as  pertinent 
to  book-hunting: 

They  may  talk  as  they  please  about  what  they  call  pelf, 
And  how  one  ought  never  to  think  of  one’s  self, 

18 


276  The  Story  of  my  House. 


How  pleasures  of  thought  surpass  eating  and  drinking, 
My  pleasure  of  thought  is  the  pleasure  of  thinking 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh-ho  ! 
How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money  ! 

Possibly  the  old  book  catalogues  are  sent 
as  a lesson  in  self-control,  and  to  teach  one 
to  endure  disappointment  as  patiently  as 
human  nature  will  allow. 

Not  the  least  interesting  volume  of  my 
library  is  my  herbarium.  Still  every  pressed 
flower  retains  much  of  its  original  color,  re- 
viving the  scene  of  many  a pleasant  ramble. 
Commencing  with  the  first  cluster  of  spring 
beauty  and  white  shad-blow  spray,  and 
ending  with  the  last  purple  aster  and  blue 
gentian  of  autumn,  it  is  thus  a sentient 
floral  calendar — a fragrant  anthology  of  the 
seasons.  It  is  one  of  my  pleasantest  vol- 
umes for  winter  reading,  every  flower  of 
which  is  a chapter  written  by  Nature  her- 
self. This  involucre  of  white  dogwood, 
for  instance,  becomes  a vernal  landscape 
riotous  with  bloom,  while  these  feathery 
mespilus  blossoms  bring  up  the  April  hill- 
sides sprinkled  with  hepaticas  and  violets. 
This  bunch  of  trilliums  recalls  a distant 
beechwood  in  early  May  carpeted  with  the 
snowy  triangular  flowers  and  misty  with 
the  beech’s  unfurling  leaves. 

And  this  pink  lady’s-slipper! 

Once  more  I trace  the  sinuous  curves  of 
the  Wiscoy  and  am  lulled  by  the  drowsy 


The  Pageant  of  the  Immortals.  277 


murmur  of  the  stream.  How  cool  the 
water  swirls  beneath  the  overarching  hem- 
locks, and  how  it  is  churned  into  foam  in 
the  deep,  dark  pool  at  the  tail  of  the  rapid, 
where  I know  the  big  trout  I hooked  and 
lost  the  previous  year  is  waiting  for  another 
taste  of  my  “ cochybondu  ” ! It  is  just  at 
the  base  of  the  steep  shaded  hillside  where 
the  sun  never  penetrates.  If  my  trout 
chooses  to  display  his  rubies  and  chryso- 
beryls  he  must  thread  his  way  up  the  cur- 
rent or  float  down  to  the  meadow  far  be- 
low. When  I have  hooked  and  basketed 
him,  another  big  fellow  will  occupy  his 
place  in  the  same  deep,  dark  pool. 

It  is  the  choice  spot  of  the  stream  within 
a reach  of  half  a mile,  and  invariably  holds 
the  strongest  fish  and  most  accomplished 
taker  of  ephemerae.  His  pannier  must  needs 
be  large,  so  many  flies  and  midges  and 
worms  and  bugs  and  beetles  drift  past  his 
lair,  and  are  sucked  in  by  the  eddy  into 
his  awaiting  maw.  The  sudden  dive  of  a 
mink  proclaims  a rival  angler,  who  may 
also  have  his  eye  on  my  trout,  and  bring 
him  to  bag,  perchance,  if  I miss  him  to-day. 

An  aroma  of  mint,  mingled  with  the 
fragrance  of  wild  flowers  and  ferns,  follows 
me  along  the  banks  ; and  there,  in  the 
swamp  where  the  partridge  drums,  my 
pink  lady’s-slipper  gleams.  The  twisting 
roots  of  the  hemlock  plunge  deep  into  the 


278  The  Story  of  my  House. 


pool;  and  with  a slap  of  his  red  tail  the  big 
trout  rises  just  beyond  them  in  the  foam- 
flecks  of  the  eddy,  precisely  where  he  rose 
the  previous  year.  How  the  water  growls 
round  the  bank  it  has  mined,  and  chafes 
and  scolds  at  the  obtruding  prongs ! And 
how  picturesquely,  too,  the  old  hemlock 
leans  over  the  stream,  shading  the  trout  for 
the  last  time!  Another  athlete  and  trained 
fly-catcher  must  lead  the  somersault  acts 
hereafter;  for  a day  at  least  the  small  fry 
may  rest  secure.  But,  alas!  with  a sudden 
rush,  my  trout  has  wound  the  leader  fast 
around  the  hemlock’s  roots,  as  he  has 
wound  so  many  leaders  before;  and,  with 
a farewell  flash  of  his  encarmined  sides,  I 
seem  to  hear  his  parting  message:  “Multce 
lapsce  inter  truttam  et  bascaudem  sunt ! 3 3 
The  pressed  flower  remains  to  remind  me 
of  the  struggle  and  my  June  holiday. 

Looking  now  at  the  pink  lady’s-slipper 
from  the  Wiscoy  woods,  I am  glad,  after 
all,  I did  not  take  my  trout,  however  great 
a triumph  his  capture  might  have  afforded 
me  at  the  time.  For,  if  the  mink  has  not 
caught  him  meanwhile — and  the  maxim  the 
trout  flung  at  me  virtually  precludes  this 
possibility — he  is  undoubtedly  still  swim- 
ming in  his  favorite  pool.  Granting  I had 
caught  him  and  that  a fish  of  equal  size  had 
taken  his  place,  it  would  yet  be  another 
trout,  not  my  trout  which  I hooked  and  lost. 


The  Pageant  of  the  Immortals.  279 


The  stream  flows  more  musically  and  more 
limpid  to  me  knowing  he  is  still  stemming 
the  current,  and  that  he  regained  his  free- 
dom. 

This  spike  of  cardinal  flowers  carries  me 
a hundred  miles  away;  and  once  more  am  I 
drifting  down  the  Oswego  River  on  a hazy 
autumnal  afternoon,  indifferent  whether  the 
great  green  bass  rise  or  not,  so  golden  is 
the  September  day.  It  is  enough  to  be 
idling  beneath  the  roar  of  the  rapid,  to  mark 
the  different  hues  of  the  water,  the  play  of 
the  slanting  sunbeams,  the  undulations  of 
the  wooded  shores.  Surely  the  landscape 
needs  no  more.  Ah,  yes!  just  that  bit  of 
color  skirting  a still  bayou,  the  flame  of 
cardinal  flowers  and  their  reflected  images 
below.  What  an  illustrated  volume!  the 
imperial  folio  of  the  seasons!  And  what  a 
succession  of  illuminated  pages  it  discloses 
from  the  rubric  and  the  preface  until  the  last 
leaf  is  turned!  every  subject  indexed  and 
paged  by  the  grand  author,  Nature;  its  types 
as  fresh  as  if  they  had  only  run  through  one, 
instead  of  thousands  of  editions. 

In  dreams  do  I behold  in  all  the  great 
libraries  the  procession  of  the  books  that 
nightly  emerge  from  the  seclusion  of  their 
shelves — countless  flowers  from  the  Muse’s 
hill  and  garlands  from  the  meadows  of  the 
classics.  At  a signal  from  the  most  anti- 
quated tome,  I see  a sudden  movement 


28  o 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


among  their  ranks,  and  hear  a rustling  of 
innumerable  leaves,  as  the  souls  of  the  im- 
mortals are  quickened  into  life,  and  the 
spirits  of  old  authors  assemble  for  converse. 
Platoons  of  majestic  folios,  some  in  calf, 
some  in  sheep,  and  some  in  stamped  pig- 
skin appear,  columns  of  venerable  and  vel- 
lumed  quartos,  tiers  of  tall  octavos,  troops 
of  lovely  Elzevirs,  Aldines,  and  sedate  black- 
letter  editions  file  by  with  measured  tread. 
Volumes  black  with  age  move  with  step  as 
elastic  as  those  clothed  in  more  modern 
garb.  Indeed,  old  and  young  seem  to  be 
indiscriminately  mingled,  without  regard 
to  costume  or  richness  of  attire.  Only,  I 
observe  that  the  procession  is  composed 
solely  of  the  dead. 

I notice,  moreover,  that  it  is  only  the 
books  of  real  merit  or  great  renown  that 
are  called  to  take  part  in  the  pageant;  and 
that  the  participants  vary  with  each  suc- 
ceeding night,  appearing  entirely  without 
regard  to  chronological  order,  though  all 
the  beautiful  world  of  belles-lettres , philoso- 
phy, and  science  that  has  charmed  and 
instructed  mankind  throughout  the  ages, 
forms  the  processional.  Thus  a copy  of 
Plato  and  a first  folio  of  Shakespeare  pass 
by,  side  by  side,  followed  by  The  Canter- 
bury Tales  and  the  Faerie  Queen,  hand  in 
hand.  Or  is  it  Goethe’s  Faust  and  Plu- 
tarch’s Lives  ? It  is  sometimes  difficult  to 


The  Pageant  of  the  Immortals.  281 


catch  the  titles,  so  numerous  are  the  vol- 
umes that  take  part.  As  the  eye  becomes 
accustomed  to  the  dimness,  the  titles  are 
more  easily  traced,  and  I distinctly  recog- 
nize Horace  and  Virgil,  Milton  and  Keats, 
Herrick  and  Hood,  Montaigne  and  Pascal,  » 
Lamb,  Thackeray,  Cervantes,  Moliere,  Theo- 
critus, Dante,  Schiller,  Balzac,  Dumas  the 
Elder,  Pope,  Burns,  Goldsmith,  Addison, 
Hawthorne,  Bulwer,  Dickens,  Irving — until 
the  eye  is  dazed  at  the  multitudinous  names. 
Night  after  night  the  procession  forms  and 
the  participants  vary — there  are  so  many 
volumes  to  take  part,  so  many  that  may 
not  be  overlooked.  Richard  Jefferies,  his 
beautiful  thoughts  scarcely  dry  on  the  page, 

I note  has  just  been  called  forth  from  the 
shelves,  and  Thoreau  has  already  marched 
with  Walton  and  Gilbert  White. 

Although  not  assisting  in  the  pageant 
itself,  there  are,  I perceive,  numerous  vol- 
umes that,  nevertheless,  appear  to  be  in 
communication  with  such  of  their  compan- 
ions as  have  responded  to  the  signal.  Beck- 
oning glances  from  those  below  are  an- 
swered every  now  and  then  by  faint 
responses  from  the  volumes  above,  their 
leaves  as  yet  unfoxed  by  Time.  Of  these 
latter  there  are  many,  and  I soon  perceive 
that  they  bear  the  names  of  living  authors 
of  note  who  must  wait  until  their  earthly 
life  is  spent  ere  they  too  may  answer  the 


282 


The  Story  of  mv  House. 


roll-call  and  take  rank  with  the  immortals. 
How,  apparently  without  volition  of  their 
own,  as  if  touched  by  an  unseen  hand,  the 
leaves  of  In  Memoriam  rustle  and  the  pages 
of  The  Autocrat  flutter ! 

The  only  participants  I see  that  seem  to 
be  out  of  place  assemble  once  a year  in 
solemn  conclave,  conversing,  it  is  true,  but 
wearing  a dejected  look.  Countless  vol- 
umes, these,  principally  first  and  rare  edi- 
tions, many  bound  in  lovely  leathers,  ex- 
quisitely gilded,  lettered,  and  tooled,  bear- 
ing innumerable  stamps  and  monograms, 
coats-of-arms,  and  ancient  book-plates. 
Many  of  them  I recognize  as  having  seen 
before  in  high  spirits,  discoursing  with  their 
companions  during  the  hour  of  the  nightly 
pageants.  This  yearly  and  unusually  large 
gathering,  characterized  by  its  extreme  grav- 
ity, puzzled  me  at  first,  until  I discovered  it 
was  composed  of  the  ghosts  of  borrowed 
books,  unhappy  in  their  covers,  lamenting 
the  loss  of  their  former  possessors  who  had 
once  cherished  them  so  fondly.  I see, 
too,  Boccaccio’s  II  Decamerone,  Brantome’s 
Dames  Galantes,  Balzac’s  Physiologie  du 
Mariage,  La  Fontaine’s  Contes  with  the 
Eisen,  De  Hooge,  and  Fragonard  plates,  and 
in  yonder  soiled,  foul-smelling  tome  I per- 
ceive the  smutty  old  satirist  and  Doctor- 
Franciscan  Rabelais.  Why  he  should  be 
called  out  at  all,  seems  a mystery,  his  pitch 


The  Pageant  of  the  Immortals.  283 


is  so  defiling,  and  his  boluses  are  so  nause- 
ating. 

Some  participants  there  are  which  at 
first  baffled  my  comprehension.  These, 
though  perfectly  composed  themselves  and 
mingling  freely  with  their  fellows,  never- 
theless appear  to  excite  an  inordinate  curi- 
osity among  their  companions  which  is 
never  gratified.  The  titles  they  bear  are 
plainly  discernible  ; but  only  when  the 
march  becomes  sufficiently  animated  to 
cause  a violent  fluttering  of  the  leaves  can  I 
catch  a glimpse  of  the  author’s  name  on  the 
title-page.  Then  I discover  these  numer- 
ous tomes  invariably  reveal  the  name  of  a 
most  voluminous  and  versatile  author,  whose 
personality  it  is  impossible  to  fathom,  an 
author  writing  with  equal  facility  in  all  lan- 
guages and  on  all  topics,  in  poetry  and  in 
prose,  persistently  preserving  his  incognito 
under  the  name  of  “ Anon.” 

I see,  also,  participating  in  the  pageant 
semi-annually,  and  on  these  occasions  di- 
recting, as  it  were,  the  imposing  march  of 
the  volumes,  numerous  men  of  middle  and 
advanced  age  that  seem  to  exhale  an  odor 
of  musty  tomes.  Occasionally  these  pause 
in  their  march  before  some  one  of  the  shelves 
to  take  down  a volume  which  I have  not 
before  seen  in  the  procession,  handling  it 
with  reverential  care,  as  if  conscious  of  the 
gems  it  enshrined.  Sometimes  it  is  a vol- 


284  The  Story  of  my  House. 


ume  by  a living  author  of  note;  again  it  is 
an  encyclopaedia  or  concordance,  or  a special 
number  of  some  dusty  periodical  that  has 
long  lain  unopened.  On  inquiry  of  my  in- 
formant, I learned  that  this  human  element 
consists  of  the  painstaking  custodians  who 
had  the  volumes  in  keeping,  the  scholarly 
and  unappreciated  librarians  who  devoted 
so  much  labor  to  the  cataloguing  and  classi- 
fication of  their  charges. 

Abruptly  close  the  clasps  of  the  most 
venerable  tome.  Again  I hear  the  rustling 
of  pages  and  folding  of  covers,  as  each 
volume  returns  to  its  accustomed  place 
and  once  more  sinks  into  hallowed  slumber. 
The  librarian  of  one  of  the  great  libraries 
where  the  nightly  pageant  forms  scouted 
the  idea  of  his  charges  leaving  their  retreats. 
“Would  I not  hear  them? — besides  the 
dust  remains  undisturbed  ! ” he  replied. 
But  a dead  author  makes  no  noise  and 
leaves  no  tell-tale  traces  when  he  quits  his 
tenement  of  print.  Books,  so  eminently 
human,  in  the  natural  course  of  things  must 
have  their  ghosts.  Of  course,  the  librari- 
an’s candle  would  dissipate  them,  as  mists 
are  dispersed  by  the  sun. 


EPILOGUE. 

Was  ich  besitze,  seh’  ich  wie  im  Weiten, 

Und  was  verschwand,  wird  mir  zu  Wirklichkeiten. 

What  I possess,  I see  far  distant  lying, 

And  what  1 lost,  grows  real  and  undying. 

Goethe,  Faust. 

In  the  hearts  of  most  of  us  there  is  always  a desire 
for  something  beyond  experience.  Hardly  any  of  us 
but  have  thought,  Some  day  1 will  go  on  a long  voy- 
age; but  the  years  go  by  and  still  we  have  not  sailed. 
— Richard  Jefferies,  The  Open  Air. 


>nce  more  the  spring,  the  sun- 
shine, and  the  youth  of  the  year. 
As  much  of  contentment,  per- 
haps, as  the  majority  may  find 
within  the  confines  of  brick  and 
stone  my  house  has  yielded  me  throughout 
the  long  months  of  winter.  Grateful  I am 
for  the  comfort  it  has  afforded — its  warmth, 
its  luxury,  its  cheer.  Yet  ever  with  the  re- 
turn of  spring  and  the  song  of  birds,  the 
house  becomes  merely  secondary  to  the 
grounds,  the  garden,  and  the  charms  of 
external  nature. 


286 


The  Story  of  my  House. 


Again  I lounge  on  the  grass-plot  over- 
looking the  river.  Once  more  I watch  the 
sparkle  of  the  water  and  inhale  the  scent 
of  the  wild  honeysuckle,  sentient  with  the 
sweet  breath  of  the  summer.  The  bees 
hum,  the  wood-dove  calls,  the  soothing 
roar  of  the  rapids  rises  and  falls.  Again, 
through  the  morning  haze,  I note  the 
pleasure  craft  idling  on  the  breast  of  the 
river;  while  yonder,  her  painted  canvas 
unfurled,  a strange  craft  is  slowly  rounding 
a curve  of  the  shore. 

Did  I say  my  ship  had  come  ? Alas  ! 
the  wood-dove  only  murmured  in  his 
dream,  and  my  ship  sailed  past  to  deposit 
her  precious  stores  at  the  harbor  of  my 
more  fortunate  neighbor. 

My  ship  was,  after  all,  only  one  of  the 
castles  in  Spain  that  we  are  always  build- 
ing— and  “these  are  but  my  fantasies.” 


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